


Turning Page

by mightypretty



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music & Bands, Angst, Depression, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightypretty/pseuds/mightypretty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Merlin, best loved singer/songwriter in the UK, tragically loses his parents in a car accident his life is turned upside down. Depressed and alone he's ready to give up and leave it all behind, but then he hears a voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning Page

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the Merlin Reverse Big Bang

The sky is dark as the car stop-starts through the busy streets of London. They’re half an hour into their journey and Merlin’s patience is beginning to wear thin. He hadn’t wanted to leave the warmth of his house in the first place. Now he has Morgana rabbiting on in his ear, and all he can think about are the five episodes of ‘Mad Men’ he has stored and waiting for him on his Sky+ box at home. 

“…So just smile and say it’s coming along great. I’ll try to tell them what they want to hear, push them on a summer release being better for sales and all that. We’ll be fine…and you’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”

Merlin nods distractedly, gaze focused on the rush of headlights that blur past his window. Morgana sits beside him, fingers seamlessly clacking over the keys of her Blackberry and flipping through the latest record figures on her lap in unison. She shoots him a look under heavy lashes, waiting for a reply. Morgana can be scary when she’s like this: demanding and steely in her organisation. That’s what makes her the best manager in the industry. 

“Yes, yes, okay,” Merlin replies quietly, twisting his body towards the door of the car and resting his forehead against the glass. He catches Morgana’s reflection in the window, sees the flicker of sympathy cast over her face and shuts his eyes. He doesn’t think he can take those looks much longer. 

It’s bad enough that it continues to be splashed across every news station and paper across the country, every gossip magazine and internet forum that Google spits out. He thinks they’d have tired of it by now; found a new scoop worthy of their ad space. Yet it seems the downfall of ‘Britain’s top rising protégé’ is scintillating enough to warrant daily updates. 

_‘Has Merlin Emrys become a recluse?’_

_‘Gaunt ‘Do you Know Me?’ singer, Merlin Emrys, suffering from eating disorder.’_

_‘Triple Brit winner, Merlin Emrys, checks into the Priory.’_

_‘Will we ever see the full potential of recently orphaned Merlin Emrys now?’_

 

Orphan. 

Those words in black and white print, splashed across headlines had made him sick. 

They say that calls received in the dead of night never bring good news. Neither would it seem do calls that come at innocuous hours on Tuesday afternoons. He’d been writing – he was always writing, back then. He can still recall the broken hitch in Morgana’s voice as she whispered his name over the phone-line, the tremor as she spoke of Kansas, his parents, their tour bus. ‘Collision’ she’d said – Six injured; three fatalities. 

‘Your parents didn’t make it, sweetie.’ 

Morgana had driven round almost immediately. Had cursed and battled and reportedly whacked one of the dozen of paps outside his building with her handbag – ‘vultures’ she called them, Merlin tended to agree. He’d sat stoic in the middle of his stupidly large couch whilst Morgana breezed around him, making endless cups of tea and hushed phone-calls in the hallway. She’d stayed with him until dusk took the last rays of sunlight, then with a sad smile on her lips and a run of fingers through his hair, she’d left. 

He hadn’t said a word to her all day. 

That evening he’d sat at his piano, his mothers. He’d lifted a shaky hand and brought a finger down slowly. Middle C. The note had dragged out into the quietness of his flat. With a huff of frustration, he’d slammed the lid shut and pushed the stool back, the emitting screech sharp and painful. 

He remembers his father sitting him down when he was a child, when they’d been on their various travels from city to city. Balinor had taken him to one side on some nameless stage in some nameless venue in some nameless town, and told him about the beauty of music. That true artists’ – true lyricists – put themselves into their music; play through their pain and channel it to create. Right now Merlin is carrying so much anger that he can barely contain it all without bursting. Playing had always calmed him through those times. It was his sanctum - and had been for most of his twenty three years. But now he picks up his guitar and the object feels foreign in his hands. The neck sits awkwardly between his fingers and the strings are so hard against the pad of his flesh that they cut through and bed deep red marks along his fingertips. 

He couldn’t stand it. And one frustrating night he’d thrown his guitar across the room, and watched as it clattered into the wall with a dead thud, cracking and splintering, lying a broken mess on the floor.

Merlin had crouched down on the balls of his feet and run tired, terse hands through his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, hard enough to feel. 

**

“Merlin?”

Merlin lifts his head, as he’s pulled from his thoughts, and beads of cool condensation cling to the tip of his fringe. Morgana’s looking straight back at him, brow raised. “Look, I promise to step in and have your back on this but you need to give me some wiggle room, too. It’s been six months Merlin, I don’t know how much more time I can buy you.” 

“I know, I know,” he mutters, fingers picking at a loose thread on his dark worn-out jeans. The car draws to a halt and he takes a deep shuddering breath. 

Six months ago he lost his parents. But it feels like he lost himself too.

**

“So how’s the album coming along? We haven’t received any new demos for a while.” 

The distant chatter from nearby tables only heightens the silence at their own. Merlin taps the prongs of his fork listlessly against the side of his glass, before Morgana gives him a sharp kick under the table. He drops his fork with a clang and meets Morgana’s sharp glare with one of his own before focusing on their dinner guests. 

“It’s coming along fine.” Merlin tells them curtly, holding their gazes for a moment before dropping his eyes down to his lap. 

Morgana watches the exchange with a weary sigh. “The album is going great,” she nods enthusiastically; subtly draping one of her arms over Merlin’s chair and giving the skin behind his ear a sharp pinch. He hisses and pouts but feigns interest anyway – anything to keep away from Morgana’s talons. “Most of the demo recordings have been made in Merlin’s own studio at his house. It’s a rather tight-knit affair, really.” 

“Yes, be that as it may, it would be good to have a couple of our own producers take a look over the progress made so far.” A stiff gentleman around the table speaks up, dry cough tickling his throat and he lifts a small tumbler of bourbon to smooth it down. “See whether the new material is the direction we want to go.” 

He nods to the younger gentleman beside him, who’s worn a permanently sickly-sweet smile since they entered the restaurant. He picks up the conversation. “We…understand that with recent events there is an expected delay with the release. But I’m sure you’re both aware that the contract you’re under demands a new album this year.” 

“Yes,” Morgana grins wide, and Merlin knows it for what it is, her predatory sneer. “But as I’m sure _you_ know, that contract also states the release will be delayed if either party feels the standard of material is not suited or adequate.” 

“Quite. But said material actually has to be present for that to be the case,” the exec snaps back and Merlin can tell this isn’t going to be settled anytime soon. 

“Excuse me.” Merlin stands abruptly. His hands clench into fists and rest on the table as he pushes himself out of his chair. “Duty calls.” 

He feels like he’s suffocating in that room, at that table. There are people deciding his life out there, what he does, what he creates, what he sings. He’s unsure and confused, and the only people he wants to speak to, the only ones who would understand – he can’t. And that realisation makes the tiring load on his shoulders feel a bit heavier.

He just needs air. That’s what he needs. 

Clear his head and he’ll be fine. 

**

The rooftop terrace is beautiful. The cream marble floor underfoot is polished to a shine and the pillars littered around the terrace are adorned with ivy and twinkling fairy lights. It’s quiet, for a late Monday evening; Merlin’s not too surprised. There are a handful of guests huddled around the bar, stretched out along one length of the building. It’s lined with peculiar looking stools that are clearly there for aesthetic purposes rather than offering any source of comfort. It’s easy, therefore, for Merlin to tuck himself away in an undisturbed corner; to grip the handle of the balcony railing and look out upon the lights of London. It all seems so vast – 15 floors up. The few people he can see scurrying around below look small from this height, insignificant. 

Merlin has spent the past six months feeling that way, insignificant. 

His fingers tighten on the cool metal bar, chill creeping under his jacket and forcing an involuntary shiver down his spine. He’s barely been existing lately. Everything he came to know, everything he understood has been snatched away from him, and the future he’d planned is hazy and unclear. It’s like someone took the script he’d been working off and ripped it to shreds and he doesn’t know what his next line is or what he’s supposed to do. 

It’s not the loss, as such. He was alone for most of his childhood, but was never lonely. Growing up with musicians for parents meant he was always on the road, never settled for too long, barely made friends before he was hopping back on the bus and driving to another city. He’d watch from the wings as his mother sang and his father harmonised behind her, strumming his Martin D-28. Then, as Merlin’s own career took off, the roles switched and they were there beside him, not always in person, but supporting him, advising him. 

Music had been another constant. Always. It’s all he knows. If he doesn’t have that, he has nothing. He is nothing. 

The distant sound of sirens and car horns shatter the peaceful quiet. Merlin just feels so lost right now. The tips of his fingers turn a ghostly white as his clutch on the railing tightens. _So damn lost._ Slowly, Merlin lifts one leg over the balcony bar and lowers it onto the thin ledge. A sharp exhale leaves his lungs. It’s almost freeing. 

It takes a tentative few seconds, a few more gulps of air before he twists his hands on the railing and swings his other leg over the barrier. Merlin doesn’t look down, keeps his gaze focused straight ahead at the tops of the surrounding buildings and in the far off distance the peak of Big Ben shrouded in low hanging clouds. He’s never considered it would come to this. But he’s tired, so very tired.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” 

“Jesus, shit.” Merlin gasps. The slack of his arms pull taut at the sudden voice from behind him. “You ever think creeping up on someone hanging off a balcony may be a bad idea?” 

“It depends,” the voice says. Merlin can detect a hint of smugness, and it’s distracting enough for him to ask. 

“On?”

“Why you’re hanging off a balcony in the first place.” 

Merlin pauses; he’s yet to turn and face this man. It would be so much easier not to look into another person’s eyes before he does this, before he ends it.

“It’s…complicated – Look, if you just go back inside and forget about any of this, it would be better for everyone. Believe me.”

“Ah, can’t do that I’m afraid,” he says again and Merlin’s frustration is teetering to the point where tears begin to prick behind his eyes. He just wants this to be over. “You see this is my uncle’s restaurant, and if he knew I could have stopped you and did nothing, then that really wouldn’t bode well for me. There’ll be police cases and docked wages and honestly, that just seems like an awful lot of hassle and I don’t have the time.”

Merlin scoffs, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and shaking his head. Who was this guy? Seriously. “You are the least sensitive person on the planet, aren’t you?”

“I prefer satirical. But hey, potatoe, potato, how about you hop back down here and tell me how much of a dick I am to my face?”

Merlin’s eyes are still closed, and all he can see behind his lids is his mother’s beaming smile, his father’s eyes crinkled with mirth as they sit either side of him at the piano. He remembers how his fingers flew effortlessly over the keys, instinctual, how proud his parents had been. The memory causes a dry whimper to catch in his throat and his feet shift nervously on the ledge. Merlin can hear a panicked rush of breath behind him and he wishes the guy would just leave already. 

“Look, whatever the reason, whatever has happened…This is never the right option; this is never the way—” 

“You don’t know.” 

“I know. I understand. It may feel like there’s nothing but there is.”

Anger pools low in Merlin’s belly and his toes curl against the tight cotton of his trainers as this person, this – man, believes he could possibly understand what he’s going through. His resolve cracks and his voice drops low as he twists his neck to look over his shoulder for the first time.

“No, you don’t get it. I have nothing.” 

Merlin’s eyes settle on the man’s legs. A short black apron is tied around his waist with a crisp white shirt tucked underneath. The cuffs of his sleeves hang open and Merlin barely allows his brain to register how powerful his hands look before his gaze travels upwards falling on broad shoulders, a chiselled jaw, plump red lips that look unfairly inviting. Until finally Merlin catches the man’s eyes, hidden away under a wind-blown dirty blonde fringe, and they’re the clearest blue he’s ever seen. Merlin allows himself to drink in and appreciate this man for what he is, gorgeous. 

But after several moments the man’s gaze soon changes and the sick heavy feeling returns to Merlin’s stomach. It’s not sympathy or pity, or even fear, in those blue eyes but recognition. It’s clear that he knows who Merlin is, and the harsh furls of anger return as Merlin twists sharply back around. 

“So now you know. I’m sure this little scoop will net you loads; just think of all the press it’ll get your dear uncle’s restaurant.” 

The man is silent behind him and Merlin wonders if he’s just walked off or is actually seriously considering the possibilities this could bring. Merlin’s hands are beginning to ache and it would be oh so easy to peel his fingers away, one by one and just let go. 

“What?” he finally speaks. “What are you saying? Don’t be stupid. No, just, come down. You don’t want to do this.” 

“You don’t know what I want.” 

“You have a gift, Merlin.” And the first use of his name makes him falter his grip, the cuffs of his shoes slipping across the paving. “You may not realise it, may not even want to accept it, but your music is important.”

“My music isn’t important.” Merlin tells him softly, his whole body aching with weariness. A howl of wind skates through his hair, brings tears to his eyes and he’s just so exhausted. But this man, who can’t be much older than himself, looks younger in fact, keeps on. His words are beginning to get frantic, desperate and Merlin knows it must be hard, to see someone at their weakest about to throw it all away, but really, he needs this to end now. 

“It is important. It is, it helps people. You don’t—”

“No.”

“Yes, it does, you need to—”

“Please, leave it, just—”

“It saved me.”

Merlin gasps and the sharp frigidness of the night lodges in his chest. He looks down, eyes wide at the man’s hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. The boy’s fingers are a warm press against his skin. The cuff of his shirt sleeve falls open further and then Merlin sees it – them. The scars are a soft pink, almost white in places. Five faded lines dragging horizontally down the inside of his wrist. Merlin swallows the lump pressed against his throat and lifts his eyes.

“I understand how dark it can get,” he speaks softly. He’s closer now and the heat from his body can be felt through Merlin’s jacket. “I understand. And this isn’t the answer; it’s not. Please, just come down, come on.”

He gives Merlin’s arm a quick squeeze and Merlin can’t draw his eyes away, wants to blink and move, but the man’s touch has him rooted to the spot. When the man before him nods, once, slowly, Merlin’s resolve finally cracks and it’s like a dam breaks inside of him. His legs quiver and for the first time he wishes he was on stable ground. So, careful now, he raises his leg to come over the bar. They manoeuvre silently; peals of laughter can be heard from the other side of the rooftop but the only sound between them is the man’s relieved sigh once Merlin is fully back across in the safety of the terrace. A hand is still wrapped around the jut of Merlin’s wrist but he doesn’t move to pull away.

“Right,” the man coughs suddenly, startling Merlin a moment and as though just realising, finally lets go of Merlin’s arm and rubs his hands on his trousers. 

“So, tea?” 

**

The kitchen isn’t the hive of activity Merlin was expecting. Most of the chefs have left already, the last of the orders being carried out by tired looking waitresses who paste cheery smiles on their faces. The busboys have already started to wash up, some wiping down surfaces as the others load up the sinks. Merlin watches them move around him, no-one stops to look, or offers any special treatment. It’s odd but welcoming. He’s sat up on the steel worktop, legs dangling off the edge, a mug of tea brewing warm in his palms. 

The man from the rooftop (the waiter-come-barman as he’d been told) sits opposite him on an upturned pot. A plate of what looks like shepherds pie balancing on his knees, which he tucks into hungrily. 

“Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?” he asks.

“I’m sure.”

The man nods, and returns to his food. He lost his apron at some stage and the white button-down shirt lies un-tucked and open at the nape, revealing prominent collarbones that Merlin decidedly does not stare at. What he can’t tear his eyes away from, however, is the pushed up roll of the man’s sleeves, right to the elbow. In the sterile brightness of the kitchen, Merlin can clearly see the map of his skin. There are more scars. Some long, some short, some that appear like light scratches reminiscent of the marks that his old cat Archimedes used to claw into his arm. Others, others are noticeably deeper, richer in colour and more prominent scaring of new flesh.

“You don’t hide them?” 

He stops mid-chew, eyebrow arched and brow furrowed. Merlin nods downs to his arms, and the man simply shrugs.

“There’s nothing to hide. They’re a part of my past, of who I used to be.” 

Merlin meets his eyes for a second, before the man lowers his head and returns to his dinner. They’re mostly left alone in the back corner of the kitchens – sans the few waiters that weave back and forth. Merlin watches him over the rim of his coffee mug, the hot steam tickles the underside of his nose and he’s still feeling ever so slightly off his axis. 

Until he eventually finds his voice and asks, “Why did you—you said I saved you? What did—?”

_“Merlin!”_

The sharpness of his name called out over the room is unmistakable. Merlin doesn’t have time to panic as Morgana barrels around the corner, eyes wild and cheeks flushed with excursion or rage – he can’t quite tell but he’s sure it’s both. The lines of her face are severe but there’s a softness in the pull of her mouth that looks a little bit like relief. She’s disappointed in him, that much is clear. Her hands are folded across her chest as she proceeds to trill on about the label executives in the next room and that this is his future - _his_ future and doesn’t he realise that? Guilt sits heavy in his stomach and Merlin closes his eyes as Morgana continues on. 

He was being so damn selfish. 

When he opens them again they meet with the blonde man sat opposite, and God, he doesn’t even know his name, but it feels like it goes beyond that now. 

“Do you even understand what this means if they—Merlin? Merlin! You’re not listening to me again, are you?” 

Merlin blinks and pulls his gaze up and away and back towards Morgana who is staring down at him with a thunderous looking expression. He hops off the counter, placing his mug on the side. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, covering her hand with his and he can already see the tension in her shoulders start to sag. “I just needed a bit of…fresh air.” 

“So you hide yourself out in the sweaty kitchens?” she asks. 

“That’s my fault.” The man beside them speaks up as he stands and runs a hand through the tufts of fringe that fall over his eyes. “We sometimes get…certain people looking for a speedy exit through the kitchens. I thought Merlin needed a few moments by himself. We’re very discreet here.”

“Except for one of your waitresses who came over and told me exactly where he was,” Morgana retorts with a quirk of her lips. The man offers her a smirk of his own and it’s almost like a challenge. 

“Well, anyway,” she continues and pointedly turns her back and focuses on Merlin, “I told the gentlemen from Camelot Records that the seafood paella hadn’t agreed with you—”

“Morgana!”

“What? You wanted me to tell them you ran off and hid in the kitchens? Honestly Merlin.” 

She rolls her eyes in an almost fond way and Merlin’s relieved that whilst she may not be entirely happy with him right now, most of the anger has faded away. She begins reeling off his schedule for tomorrow, side stepping around a worrying splatter of sauce on the floor as she heads back for the doors. 

“Uh, just give me a moment, yeah?” Merlin asks. His voice is slightly unsure and Morgana looks at him puzzled for a moment before her eyes settle on the guy beside Merlin. A new look takes over her features and Merlin wants to shake his head and tell her, no, no it’s nothing like that, but she’s grinning in an entirely smug way and holding up her fingers to signal two minutes and is out of the door in a breeze of Prada and Kurt Geiger. 

“I suppose I should say thank you.” Merlin turns, and Mr blonde-blue-eyes is standing with his hands in his pockets, looking up at him through his lashes. He has a small smile on his lips and this sudden shyness unsettles Merlin. 

“I suppose I should too…for, well. Thank you.” 

The man’s fringe falls in front of his eyes again and he’s so oddly endearing to Merlin that he’s just got to ask. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Arthur. It’s Arthur.” He holds out his hand and oh, it would be hilariously ironic if he wasn’t focusing on the heat of Arthur’s palm in his. 

“Merlin,” he finds himself whispering and when Arthur cocks an eyebrow and smirks, a blush colours his cheeks. 

“Really? Funny name,” says Arthur sarcastically and the lightness in his tone feels out of place and all too soon and he thinks of Morgana outside the door, of Arthur’s touch on his wrist up on the roof and it’s as if a shutter falls back down. 

“I’ve got to- I’ve got to go,” Merlin tells him with a curt nod and forced smile and he’s just turned to leave when Arthur stops him yet again. 

“Wait.” Arthur’s hunched over the worktop, scribbling something. When he twists back around, Merlin notices he has a napkin in his hand and a lump sticks in his throat. 

Arthur’s holding the cloth out to him, ‘Agravaine’s’ logo stamped in one corner, an eleven digit number on the other. “If you ever need to talk…or you know,” Arthur says with a shrug and Merlin sucks his bottom lip between his teeth as he leans across and takes the napkin from Arthur’s outstretched hand. He stares at it for a moment, fingers the edges, before folding it and slipping it into his jean pocket. 

“Bye, Arthur.” 

**

It's four days later, the scratchy vocals of Robert Plant play out into the otherwise quiet flat. Merlin’s sitting on the sill of the window, watching the city live and breathe below. He’s spent countless hours in this spot – writing, reams and reams of poetic lines and sonnets, feelings that he eventually morphs into stories, lyrics. When Merlin was twelve, his mother presented him with his first notebook; bound in rich brown leather. He remembers how heavy it felt in his hands, empty pages that seemed endless and aching to be filled. Hunith told him to never doubt his words – never second guess himself, never stop himself from writing what he felt – no matter how fatuous or paltry it may seem. He’s lived by that ever since. 

Countless journals from the past eleven years are stacked around him at this moment. Merlin hoped it would bring some sense of inspiration. Yet, the blank pages of the moleskin notebook in his lap stare back at him mockingly and he pushes it to the floor with a thud and rests his head against the cool pane of the glass. 

The events of the other night still haunt most of his days – and most of his nights too. Sleep comes sparingly and fitful lately. Each day is a struggle to even get out of bed. His thoughts drift back to that brief moment of relief he’d felt standing on the edge of that rooftop, the grip of his hands on the metal railing the only thing keeping him from finally falling over and finding peace. That and Arthur. 

Arthur, whose number still burns a hole in the pocket of his jeans from where he kicked them off at the end of the evening and tucked away in the farthest corner of his wardrobe. This man who was nothing like him, who was loud and vicarious and seemingly a bit of an arse when he wanted to be. He was nothing of what Merlin’s rather sheltered upbringing had taught him to be: cautious and withdrawn and calculating with whom he trusts. But then those scars tell a different story, offer a different side – and maybe they’re not so dissimilar after all. 

Merlin releases a heavy sigh and watches as his breath fogs up the glass beneath his head. He brings a finger up to drag over the condensation, one line followed by another, and then another. When he sits up, he realises he’s drawn an ‘A’ on the surface. He watches until it disappears, furls in on itself as if it was never there. He weighs the decision in his mind, before eventually standing and retrieving the folded napkin from his cupboard. The ink has smudged slightly, the edges frayed, but the numbers are still plainly visible. Merlin paces nervously as he types in the first five digits and gnaws on the bow of his lip with a moment’s hesitation. He clears the numbers and sits back down on the wooden sill, hands clutching the phone between his knees. Merlin doesn’t know what to do. What does he do? He steeps his fingers in a silent prayer, shakes his head as his eyes drop on the scattered journals around his feet. 

‘Maybe this is the start?’ he thinks – and dials. 

**

The buzzer sounds sharp and Merlin finishes packing the last of his journals away before standing to move into the hallway. He glances into the monitor beside the door to see his personal driver’s smiling face beaming back. Over the man’s shoulder, Merlin can see a tuft of blonde hair and a niggle of doubt begins to settle in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t do this. Invite practical strangers to his house, into his home. Seeing Arthur, even the small black and white version of him on the miniscule screen, sets Merlin’s heart beating faster. 

“Mister…”

“Pendragon,” Arthur throws in over his shoulder.

“Mr Pendragon for you, M,” the staticky voice comes over the speaker. 

“Thanks Percy, send him up,” Merlin instructs, opening the door a crack and stepping back into the living room.

Merlin can hear the hum of the elevator travelling up and has a brief moment to panic and consider closing the door and dead bolting it shut. He’s usually so cautious, been accused of being aloof more times than he’d like to count. His mother, however, his mother was different. Always warm and welcoming to whomever passed her by. Hunith had urged Merlin from a young age to go out and make mistakes, learn from his own experiences. To live and love and get his heart broken, then come home and write a heart wrenching song about it. And he’d tried that – for a while. Until the first images of him kissing a gloriously fit bloke in the dark corner of a club surfaced in the papers. Nothing damaging, nothing scandalous, only worthy of page 6 gossip material, but that hadn’t been the point. It wasn’t the fact he was gay. It was the scrutiny, the invasion. 

He was a musician but he was also a celebrity – and that’s where his whole outlook changed. So he kept himself to himself, low-key and quiet and guarded with his secrets. Yet, it all seemed to have backfired rather spectacularly. He was a ‘soul-searching lyricist’ according to The Guardian and labelled an ‘artificial whiney pop sprog’ by the NME. Either way, he was talked about, and the one thing the press loves more than an artist who acts like an arse, is one shrouded in mystery. So he’s learnt to deal with the paps outside his house, of the journalists who try to crash his own parents’ funeral. If he gives nothing away, then they can’t take anything from him – and that’s what he has to tell himself. 

“So are you secretly Batman then?” Arthur’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, and Merlin turns swiftly to find him standing in front of the now closed door. The same ridiculous grin on his face from the restaurant that’s looking more like a smirk with every passing second. Merlin tells himself to stop focusing on Arthur’s mouth and it’s only then does he double take at Arthur’s greeting.

“What?” 

“Chauffer driven blacked out car, underground garage, keypad lift. I’ve got to say, it’s all pointing towards closeted super-hero here.”

“No,” Merlin replies dazed, somehow already wrong-footed within ten seconds of having Arthur in his home. “No closeted anything,” 

“So I hear,” Arthur returns, voice sounding much closer and Merlin lifts his head to see Arthur’s moved into the room. He allows himself to meet Arthur’s eyes and he looks tired. Light shadows hug in the concaves above his cheekbones but his eyes shine with suggestiveness. It’s flirtatious and Merlin doesn’t quite know how to deal with it. 

“Um, tea?” Merlin stumbles, “Coffee?”

“Coffee would be good.”

Merlin gives him a quick nod and darts into the kitchen. He fills the kettle, places it on to boil and takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. This is just coffee, just coffee, as a thank you, he tells himself. Drums it into his consciousness and hopes he’ll actually believe it. When he steps back into the lounge, mugs in hand, he finds Arthur fingering a photo frame on the mantelpiece. He doesn’t need to look to see which it is, and as he gives a courteous cough, Arthur fumbles with the picture and almost knocks it off the shelf. 

Arthur’s cheeks begin to burn as he takes the proffered cup from Merlin’s hand and skittishly looks up at him through his fringe. 

Merlin understands, he gets it; he would feel the compulsion to sneak a peek too if he walked in a room to find all the photos turned around, hidden. Merlin reaches across and twists it so it’s facing forward, the image of himself as a teenager staring back at him. He’s standing with an arm wrapped around his father’s shoulders, guitars hanging loose in both their fingers – similar, identical. 

“They’re Gibson LG-1’s,” Merlin tells him, moving to sit at one end of the couch. “It’s the first guitar my dad learnt to play, and the first one he bought me.”

“That’s pretty special,” Arthur smiles, taking a seat beside him. There’s space in-between, just enough distance to not set Merlin’s heart racing. “Where is it?” 

Merlin pauses, remembers that night months ago, remembers how lost he’d felt, as he’d thrown his beloved instrument against the wall and left the shards of wood littering his floor for days. 

“It’s uh, I don’t have it any more.” 

“Oh, okay,” Arthur says softly and lifts his mug to his lips. Merlin watches him for a moment before raising his own cup of tea and a lull falls over them. It’s gone vastly past the stage of acceptable and careening ever quickly into awkwardness.

“We could talk, you know,” Arthur eventually speaks up after what feels like hours. “I hear it can be a rather enjoyable pass time. You know, when one person says something and another responds?” Merlin ducks his head even further into his mug of tea, a scarlet flush running up his neck. “Though silence works too,” Arthur grins – and it’s bloody infuriating. 

“You don’t hold back, do you?”

“I try not to.” 

Merlin sighs and leans over to place his cup down on the short table in front. “I don’t know why I called you.”

“I didn’t ask,” Arthur twists to face Merlin head-on and brings up a leg to rest in the space between them. Merlin’s breath hitches as Arthur’s knee knocks into his and stays there, a searing presence of heat that burns through his jeans. 

“You didn’t, uh—you didn’t go to the papers,” says Merlin and curses himself for stammering like some jittery teenager.

“Did you expect me to?” Arthur asks and there’s a flicker of hurt laced in his tone.

“No,” Merlin says quickly. He catches Arthur watching him with interest and he shakes his head. “No,” he repeats, “I hoped you wouldn’t, but well, you know.”

He shrugs his shoulders and can feel Arthur’s eyes boring into him but he doesn’t want to look up and meet them, not just yet. A low rumble sounds into the room and Arthur lets out a groan and places a hand over his stomach. 

“You’re hungry?”

“Came straight from work,” Arthur tells him, setting his own mug down on the side. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, if I’d—“

“No, don’t be,” Arthur cuts him off. “I wanted to come. It just seems my stomach is now attempting to punish me.” Merlin huffs out a dry breath that’s almost a laugh and absently picks at the hem of his t-shirt. He doesn’t know why, but there’s a twinge of disappointment that the night is ending so soon. 

“We could always go out and grab something to eat,” Arthur’s hand reaches across and taps Merlin’s fingers innocently, “If you wanted?” 

The touch is light, fleeting, but it sends a jolt of electricity through Merlin’s bones and it’s pathetic. Sad, really, how such an innocuous brush of fingers can cause his body to thrum with nervous energy and make the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with heat. 

Merlin pulls his hand back and doesn’t allow himself to feel guilty about it. “Uh, I don’t really—“

“It doesn’t have to be a date if you don’t want it to be,” Arthur tells him so assuredly Merlin begins to wonder if he’s just a complete and utter fritz for freaking out over the briefest touch of hands. It’s just, its been so long since anyone has touched him like that, other than Morgana, and really despite her ethereal beauty her touches do nothing whatsoever to his libido. 

“What? Uh, no that’s not—I mean, I don’t usually. Going out can be a bit difficult,” is what Merlin chooses to say and he can tell Arthur doesn’t quite understand but is trying.

“Right, sure. Take-away?”

Merlin looks pained. 

“You got something against delivery guys?” Arthur asks with a tug of his mouth that quickly straightens back into a line at the serious frown on Merlin’s face. 

“Only the ones pretending to be them,” Merlin tells him, walking into the kitchen, expecting Arthur to follow. “You’ll be surprised how many paps try and get up here with an empty pizza box.”

“Wow, ok.”

“You think I’m paranoid,” Merlin turns to find Arthur leant up against his kitchen work-top, hips canted, and the cheap polyester work trousers doing nothing whatsoever to avert his attention. 

Arthur folds his arms across his chest, and that’s really not fair, Merlin thinks as the thin white material of his shirt hugs the muscles in Arthur’s arms and the tautness of his shoulders. “I think you’re many things, but not paranoid.” 

Merlin coughs, and curses his traitorous Irish genetics that make him blush at the smallest remark. “I don’t think I have much,” Merlin says sadly, opening his fridge door wide and looking in at the sorry state of emptiness. 

He’s just about to close it again when he feels Arthur’s breath on the back of his neck, and the heat of his body is close and warm. “You have eggs…mushrooms. We can have breakfast?” 

“Breakfast,” Merlin repeats; nodding his head slowly, as Arthur moves around his kitchen with unremitting ease. It’s odd and unsettling, but Merlin’s reluctant to stop him. And when Arthur turns and waves a frying pan at him with a stupidly big grin on his face, Merlin can’t help but return it. 

**

It’s late when Arthur gets back. 

Having gone straight from a twelve hour shift to Merlin’s he’s absolutely shattered and all he’s craving now is his bed. However, as soon as he slips his key in the lock and pushes the door open, the hallway light flicks on to reveal Guinevere’s silhouette leaning against the doorjamb. He lets out a low groan. Ten seconds later and he’s barely managed to kick his shoes off before she’s frog-marching him into the kitchen, pushing him down into one of their old wooden chairs and demanding all the details, right this instant, because “It’s not everyday you go cavorting around with gorgeous celebs, you know?”

He shrugs off his jacket and toys with the ring on his thumb as Gwen moves around the kitchen.

“So you’re telling me you didn’t talk once about what happened last week?” she asks.

“Nope”

Gwen shakes her head, flips on the kettle and leans back against the worktop to face Arthur. 

“What the hell did you talk about then?"

Arthur shrugs, folding his arms upon the table and resting his chin on his crossed hands. “I don’t know…films. Music.” He picks at the corner of a well-worn coaster, listlessly. “We had breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” Gwen looks over her shoulder with a puzzled tug of her brow. She reaches up on tip-toes to retrieve a couple of mugs from the cupboard and goes about setting them with hot chocolate powder and sugar. 

“Yeah, that’s not important. Ignore that.”

“Right. So you got on?”

Arthur stops and thinks about that for a moment. “Kind of,” he says unsurely. It had been a bit awkward at first, sure, but after that, as they’d sat on Merlin’s couch, balancing plates filled with runny omelettes on their laps, watching old Doctor Who re-runs, it had been…nice. “I did most of the talking actually, come to think about it.”

“There’s a shock.”

“Hah bloody ha.”

“You know we all love you and your big mouth and the wonderful situations it gets you stuck in, darling,” Gwen drawls sarcastically, leaning over and pinching Arthur’s cheek before setting his mug down in front of him. 

“Charmed,” he retorts, sitting up and taking a tentative sip. He rests back against the chair, tipping it on its hind legs and cradles the hot mug in his palms. “But Merlin, he’s quiet.”

“Quiet can be good.” Gwen takes a seat opposite, pouring a splash of milk into her mug. She kicks at his chair and he drops forward with a pout. 

“No, I get that but I mean, he’s _really_ quiet. It was difficult to get anything out of him tonight.”

“Are you surprised? He’s been in the limelight since he was what, five? Younger? He has people recording every step he makes, every thing that comes out of his mouth. It can’t be easy.”

Arthur chews the inside of his lip and pauses, “No I suppose not.”

“But it’s good he’s talking to you,” Gwen blurts quickly. “I mean, that he wants to talk to you, what with everything you’ve been through. I think you could help him.”

Arthur scoffs, bringing his leg up to rest across his knee. “I don’t think I’m fit to be advising anyone.”

“Has he seen your scars?” Gwen asks, watching him over the brim of her mug. Arthur’s quiet for a moment before he looks up and holds her eye.

“Yeah, he’s seen them.”

“Have you explained them?” 

“Not yet.”

“Arthur,” Gwen chides.

“I’ll explain them when he asks.” 

A trill sounds from the living room, as Gwen’s blasted cuckoo clock bleats into the night. Arthur had never liked the darn thing but Gwen’s dad had carved it himself, and well, Arthur didn’t have the heart to deny her hanging it; even if the blasted thing went off at all odd hours of the day. Gwen drains the last of her hot chocolate and makes to stand and place the mug in the sink. She had never been very good at keeping her feelings hidden and her disappointment even less so – Arthur watches as she silently runs the cup under the tap. 

“You don’t think I’m doing the right thing?”

Gwen sighs, placing the upturned mug on the drainer and turning to face him. “It’s not about right or wrong, Arthur, or even about what I think you should do. If you want to help Merlin, you need to talk to him.” Arthur stares into the murky brown remnants of his cocoa as Gwen reaches an arm around and gives Arthur’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, “and not just about films.”

She presses a goodnight kiss against the side of his temple, and leaves Arthur more awake with his thoughts than ever. 

**

The drive back from the label’s office has been predominantly made in silence. 

The rescheduled appointment with the label had continued on in much of the same vein as their disastrous dinner meeting. Demands were being made for Merlin’s new album but Morgana wasn’t the most revered manager for nothing. She’d held her own and done her job. She’d bought him more time, an extra few weeks and he should be thankful, should be using this time to plan enthusiastically. Be making calls for studio musicians and producers and to his old friend Will who is the best engineer he’s ever worked with but also the biggest berk known to man. The thought of housing Will and his notoriously slobbish ways for weeks, possibly months, whilst they work on this album is enough for Merlin to put off thoughts of getting back in the studio even further. 

The car rolls into the beneath-ground garage and Merlin chances a quick glance at Morgana to find her attention fully focused on her blackberry. He watches her for a few moments before he finally gathers the courage to speak. 

“I’ll be needing a new phone.” 

Morgana’s fingers still on the keys as she tilts her head towards him. “A new phone?” 

“Yes.”

“For who?”

“Well, me obviously,” Merlin tells her with a sigh, hands already betraying him as they begin to twitch nervously on the top of his knees. He quickly places them under his thighs. 

Morgana rolls her eyes whilst her lips twist up in a rouged-tinted smirk. “Cute,” she says, pocketing her blackberry and turning in her seat to face Merlin head on. “I mean who are you using it for?”

“No-one, I’m just being extra careful – like you told me.” 

“Hmm, this wouldn’t have anything to do with the pretty blonde from the restaurant last week, would it?” 

Merlin chews on the inside of his cheek and curses Morgana’s almost bewitching ability to see straight through people. He looks towards Percy who is remaining stolid as ever, staring straight ahead. He catches Merlin’s eye in the rear-view mirror and briefly shifts out of his stilled position to give a quick shake of his head. Merlin had always liked Percival. 

“It’s nothing like that, he’s-” Merlin pauses, not quite sure how to best describe Arthur, of who he is, or what he is to Merlin. Not a friend, not yet, but maybe, possibly. “He’s just someone to talk to, and I’m simply trying to cover our backs.”

Morgana brings a hand to rest gently on his leg. “You know you can always talk to me if you need to, don’t you?” 

Merlin appreciates it, he does. But it’s almost like Morgana is too close, warped like he, in their own bizarre little bubble. Arthur. Arthur is something new, something outside of it all. He can feel Morgana’s breath against the side of his face as her chest falls in a deep sigh. She almost looks disappointed, but soon it flickers away and she’s giving his thigh two sharp pats before facing forward once again and pulling a compact mirror out of her handbag. 

“You’re aging me, my boy,” Morgana tells him as she presses powder under her eyes. There’s the smallest smudge of dark circles marring her porcelain skin, but with a few quick strokes they’re disguised and she’s perfect again. “Now go and write some of your beautiful music, for both our sakes.” 

Merlin gives her a brief smile as he opens the door and makes to step out. 

“I’ll have your new phone delivered this evening,” she tells him. 

Merlin doesn’t turn around as he mumbles a ‘thanks’ and heads into the house. 

**

It quickly becomes easy to text Arthur; to immerse himself in this new relationship of sorts. Merlin finds his phone vibrating at all hours of the day and, quite unexpectedly, discovers he not only enjoys them, he’s come to rely on them. Those brief, short messages that are often so utterly innocuous can be the difference of whether he gets out of bed that day. 

They help him.

So whenever he feels low, whenever his mind switches off and travels to places he really doesn’t want it to dwell, he picks up his phone and types out a message.

‘What are up to?’

‘Tell me about your day.’

Or sometimes…most times, just, _’distract me.’_

It works – for the most part. They talk about the little things, random titbits of aimless chatter that diverges through tangents and before Merlin realises it they’ve been texting for hours and the alarm on his dresser reads 3am and sleep is the furthest thought from his mind. 

Merlin states his opinions, and Arthur has this odd way of knocking them back and throwing him entirely off kilter. It’s almost offending; yet his words are said with jest and Merlin’s never had someone who hasn’t fallen over themselves trying to impress him, but Arthur doesn’t. In fact, he vehemently challenges nearly everything Merlin believes and it’s refreshing to not be blindly followed all the time. 

When they get onto heavier topics though, when Arthur asks about his parents or that night on the roof, Merlin finds himself averting the conversation and holding his breath that things don’t get awkward. 

‘I haven’t even told Morgana about you,’ Merlin types out one evening. He’s sat at his kitchen counter, mug of tea cooling in his palms. 

’Does she have to know?’

And just like that Arthur’s challenging him again. 

Then a text comes through that stops his heart.

‘Have dinner with me.’

Merlin stares at the message, taps out a response twice, before deleting it. Until, eventually, after half an hour he sends back a five letter reply – ‘I can’t’ – he types, switching his phone off and burying it in the bottom of the cutlery drawer. He keeps it hidden there until the next morning, when he awakes to turn it back on, his mobile trills with the alert of a flood of messages. Some short, some long, some that make Merlin snort through his nose and others that make him downright blush. They all make him smile however, and before he can think better of it he sends a text back of his own. 

’God, you’re just full of it’

’Charm?’

’Cockiness.’

’You find me endearing really.’

And well, Merlin has to give him that one. ‘You’re confusing endearing with arrogant,’ he types, the barest hint of a smile on his lips but he pictures Arthur slouched on the couch, or better yet lying in bed and the grin stretches further. 

‘Have dinner with me,’ Arthur asks again and this time, this time, Merlin says yes. 

**

It takes much coaxing, and a rather ridiculous vow that he be held personally responsible should Morgana ever find out before Arthur eventually manages to get Merlin to leave the house. Cloaked under the darkness of Percival’s blacked out Jaguar, Arthur directs them through the white-bricked houses of Hampstead into the terraced streets of Shoreditch. They sit in mostly silence, but as the weeks have gone by, those ever frequent moments of quiet have grown less and less awkward. 

They eventually pull up round the back entrance, into some darkly lit alleyway. A waiter is carrying out two black bags and slinging them into the large trash bin as Arthur gets out the car and walks around to Merlin’s side. The small slither of light from the open door highlights the man’s shaggy hair and Arthur smiles as he takes a step towards him.

“Leon.”

“Arthur, my man, it’s been a while,” Leon calls, wiping his hands on his stained apron before giving Arthur a hearty slap on the back. “And I don’t think we’ve met,” he says looking over the top of Arthur’s shoulder and extending his arm in greeting, “Leon.”

“Merlin,” he replies, taking Leon’s large hand in his and Arthur can see Merlin’s waiting for that flicker of recognition, that slight change in demeanour, but it doesn’t come, just as Arthur had expected. 

“Come through lads, take it the whip-cracker is expecting you?”

Arthur laughs, falling into step with Leon. “She’ll have your guts for garters if she hears you call her that.” 

He stops when he realises Merlin’s still rooted to the place where he’d left him, eyes glazed as they stare off into the bleak stone-wall distance. 

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging an elbow in Merlin’s side. “Come on,” and takes a hold of Merlin’s skinny wrist and leads him through the kitchens. Cat calls and yells of greeting filter around the staff and Arthur raises a hand in salute, throwing out names and ‘how are you’s’ to everyone he passes. 

“Someone’s popular," Merlin says from beside him. 

“Well they’re friends, aren’t they?” Arthur replies. He looks across to see Merlin nodding his head solemnly. Then it suddenly dawns on Arthur that whilst Merlin may appear to have countless people in his life, that doesn’t necessarily mean he has friends. Arthur thinks back to the images he’s seen of Merlin on the net - arms wrapped around fellow musicians or soap stars or TV personalities and he wonders how many of them he actually _knows._ So Arthur squeezes his fingers a little tighter around the jut of Merlin’s wrist and is rewarded with Merlin’s piercing blue eyes turning towards him. There’s something sad in the expression though, and Arthur gets the strong feeling he shouldn’t ask, so he doesn’t. 

Leon turns to make sure they’re following and continues to shepherd them as they weave through the workstations. 

“Elena’s set you a place at the back,” he says, and Arthur smiles politely, guiding Merlin along. When they reach the table, it’s just as Leon had said, secluded and tucked away, private enough for Merlin to hide away in the shadowed alcove without losing the view and ambience of the restaurant. Arthur’s not usually one out to impress, but by the way the tension in Merlin’s shoulders slacken as he slides into the booth, he takes it for the small victory it is. 

There’s still a small quiver in the way Merlin holds up his menu though and Arthur opens his mouth to start off this – date? If it could even be called that, but everything his brain offers up is utterly useless, and it’s literally minutes later and Arthur is no closer to saying anything. 

“We could try conversing. Someone told me once it could be quite an enjoyable pass time.” 

Arthur looks up stunned and his damn mouth is still open and closing like a flipping goldfish, but at least now he has reason to because for a brief moment that sounds like flirting. Merlin’s meeting his bemused expression with a raised eyebrow and then he cocks the corner of his lips and leans back and damn this is a side to Merlin Arthur’s never seen before and it’s ever so intriguing. 

“Touché,” Arthur says with a smirk of his own, flipping open the menu and browsing its contents – even if he knew all their dishes off by heart; having been trial guinea-pig for most of the sampling. 

“Do you want a drink?”

“I don’t drink much really, I mean, I usually didn’t when I was writing, so-“ 

“Don’t worry,” Arthur intercedes. “Me neither. Not any more anyways.”

Arthur stops himself from saying anything further. He doesn’t want to scare Merlin off before they’ve even spent five minutes here. Getting Merlin out of the house and actually in an environment he’d never been before, without the presence of Morgana or his usual heaving mass of muscle he called security – granted Percy was still sat in the car outside, but still, it's progress - had been hard enough. He wasn’t going to treat this like some sort of intervention where he has Merlin sit down and talk about his _feelings_ , cause God does he know, those types of situations never end well. 

He can see Merlin’s about to say something else. Possibly ask and lean forward and see where Arthur was about to go with that comment, but then he looks up and there’s a blur of hair and coquettish laughter rounding the corner. Arthur rolls his eyes as his name is drawled in that thick Irish brogue he’s grown to love. 

“I just had to come and see this for myself, our Arthur, booking a table and not eating out of our kitchens.” 

“And a good evening to you too, Gwaine,” Arthur replies dryly, staring up into Gwaine’s shit-eating-grin that pulls his face wide and makes his eyes twinkle. “Are you actually going to play the role of host and serve us?”

“Well, only the very best treatment for my friend here,” Gwaine returns and both men laugh as they clasp each others' forearms in a tight grip. 

“Good to see you, mate.”

“You too,” Gwaine takes a step back and turns his attention to the other side of the booth. “So you must be the bloke keeping our Wart hidden away?”

Merlin’s relaxed face soon pinches at the brow and he looks up in alarm. “I—no, I don’t think—“ He stumbles over his words and Gwaine throws his head back releasing a dry chuckle.

“Ah, I see why you’re smitten with him now.” He turns to Arthur and tosses a wink in Merlin’s direction, who’s flushed a shocking colour of beetroot.

“I’m Gwaine, by the way.”

“Merlin.”

“Good to meet you, my man,” Gwaine thumps a hearty pat on his shoulder and Merlin near topples and head butts the table. Arthur catches his eye and struggles to hide his grin. 

“Whatever you lads want – on the house.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Merlin speaks up, looking between the pair of them. 

Gwaine simply slaps another forceful hand on the back of the booth with a shake of his head. “Nonsense, it’s our pleasure. Arthur never brings any of his dates here so you’ve got to be special eh?” 

Arthur brings up a hand to push back his fringe with a groan. He doesn't need to look over to know that Merlin’s trying to burrow himself even further into the corner of the booth.

“Plus my missus would kill me if she thought I’d let her precious Art go hungry.”

“Your missus is going to kill you if you don’t get back to front of house and seat those customers.” Elena comes up beside them, floating out of the kitchen with three plates balanced in her hands. This restaurant, Avalon, had been their whole life for three years – their baby as Elena often took to saying. Even though it was a fairly successful little bistro, prime centre in the heart of Shoreditch, they’d never taken a back seat. Elena and Gwaine, they grafted and got stuck in and were the type of people who’d rather get their hands dirty than watch their business from behind glass in broad pin-striped suits. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” Elena smiles down at Arthur, curtseying ever so carefully to place a kiss on his cheek. Arthur always finds it astounding how Elena can glide with such grace and agility in her restaurant, but struggles to keep on two feet once she steps out of it. 

“How you holding up, Eleny?” he asks and she sighs dramatically, blowing a puff of air that causes the curls over her forehead to flutter. 

“Oh as well as a girl can do on four hours of sleep – with plenty of red bull and a boyfriend who actually does what I tell him.” She tilts her head back to look at Gwaine who scoffs and mock bows. 

“Message received loud and clear, my lady.” He winks at Arthur and Merlin, before turning on his heel and scurrying off to the front of the restaurant. 

“Let me just drop these off and I’ll be back with some drinks,” Elena nods to her full hands. “Cokes, yeah?” she asks and is looking not-so-subtly at Arthur who nods his thanks and pretends to not notice the way Merlin’s eyes dart between them, unsure and inquisitive. 

He shrugs off his jacket and pushes the arms of his sleeves up as Merlin’s busy unwinding the longest scarf Arthur’s sure he’s ever seen from around his neck. He clasps his hands together and rests his chin upon them and is just about to regale Merlin all of his wondrous tales about Gwaine and Elena and one unfortunate incident with a goose when he notices Merlin’s eyes drop from his face and focus on his bared fore-arms. 

He’s used to the looks by now, the double-takes, the moment when people stop seeing him as Arthur and start seeing him as a cutter. He hadn’t wanted to push Merlin, not tonight, but maybe, this wasn’t about Merlin at all. He remembers Gwen’s words from a few weeks ago – if he wanted to help Merlin, he’d have to talk to him. Maybe this was the first step?

“You can ask me about them, you know,” Arthur says, watching as the words register across Merlin’s face and his gaze flickers up with an almost guilty look in his eye.

“Sorry, it’s not my place.” 

“Don’t apologise, it’s not like I hide them. I did at first though; I hated the thought of anyone seeing them.”

Merlin’s fingers are fiddling with the cutlery on the table and Arthur has to fight the urge to stop them, to cover Merlin’s hand with his and draw intricate shapes over the bump of his knuckles. 

“You don’t need to tell me,” Merlin taps a fingernail against the edge of his knife. 

Merlin probably doesn’t know what he’s doing, but seeing the tip of a blade against the delicate softness of Merlin’s skin causes a lump to stick in Arthur’s chest and he has to shake his head to clear the thoughts that threaten to cloud his mind every day. “Maybe not,” he answers eventually, throat slightly dry, “but you might want to know before you spend more time with me,” he says measurably. Merlin cocks his head with interest. 

“Trying to scare me off?”

“If that’s what you think I’ve been trying to do these past few weeks, I’m clearly getting it all wrong.”

They laugh. Arthur can count the amount of times Merlin’s laughed in his company on one hand. He considers it the saddest thing that he can’t pull them out of Merlin more, because he honestly thinks it’s one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard. They laugh until their breaths fall short and turn into heavy sighs. Merlin’s looking at him with such intensity Arthur isn’t quite sure how much longer he can hold it. He’s silently grateful, therefore, when Elena returns with their drinks, bending and kissing and generally fawning all over Merlin as if he’s to become her newly adopted BFF. She takes their order, in between even more cooing, and eventually leaves them with a swish of her skirts. 

“She can be a bit…full on,” Arthur tells him as they both watch Elena spin aimlessly from table to table. 

Merlin’s got a soft smile on his face and Arthur can tell it’s genuine and unreserved. “She’s sweet.” Arthur nods and takes a sip of his coke.

Merlin’s gaze keeps dropping to his wrists and Arthur wants to lean over and pick up Merlin’s hands and place them over his scars so he can feel them – feel him. And that would almost certainly be pushing things too far too fast but Merlin’s frowning slightly as he mutters, “I want to know…If you’ll tell me.”

They hold each others stare for a moment, before Arthur nods and drops his eyes, focusing on drawing a finger around the rim of his glass. “I was nineteen when I started though the depression kicked in a lot earlier.” Merlin is leaning back against corner of the booth wide eyes belying the calmness in his posture. “Though I suppose being disowned and kicked out of your home when you’re sixteen does that to you.”

“You were kicked out?” Merlin asks and Arthur hums an assent – head still bowed. 

“Surprisingly my deeply Conservative father didn’t take too kindly to walking in and seeing his son getting sucked off by another boy.”

Merlin shifts further forward, one elbow coming to lean on the table between them. “He kicked you out? Just like that?”

“Well,” Arthur replies, a sharp bitterness in his tone that he’s unable to hide. “After he told me I was going to burn in hell for all eternity and that I was to be completely disinherited and that if he never saw me again, it’d be too soon.“

“I’m sorry“

“Oh, don’t be sorry. Believe me, it gets much worse.”

“I don’t—“ Merlin tries, struggling to get his words in as Arthur steamrolls over them with a conviction that’s raw and almost painful.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers, running his hands over his eyes. “If this is making you uncomfortable, I can stop.”

“No, no, not unless you want to, it’s—would I sound like an awful person if I said it was slightly comforting?”

“I don’t think anyone could ever call you awful, Merlin.” 

Merlin moves to slap his arm and there’s a jolt of something akin to electricity that burns under Arthur’s skin. From the way Merlin sucks in a sharp breath and pulls his hand back, Arthur’s sure he felt it too. 

“What did you do?” Merlin eventually asks. 

“The only thing I could do. Slept rough, begged. Some nights I was able to get into hostels, other nights…not so much. It’s crazy, you know? When you’re on the outside looking in, it just all seems so simple, but when you’re there, when you’re living it, nothing makes sense. I got into drinking and then when that didn’t hit the spot, I turned to something stronger.”

Merlin’s biting on the corner of his mouth as he asks, “Drugs?” And Arthur closes his eyes as he shakes his head. 

“I was, stupid, so fucking stupid, but it’s different, when you’re stuck there, you don’t ever think you’ll get out. You hope, but even after a while that leaves you. You turn to anything just to numb the pain for a few hours, _do_ anything to get it,” Arthur pauses, runs the tip of his thumb over the plump of his bottom lip. He’s never said all this – out loud, in one go to anyone. Sure they all know, his friends, his uncle and aunt, they’d helped him, quite literally pulled him from the gutter at times. But Arthur’s never just laid it all out there, unbridled for Merlin to poke at. It offers him an odd sense of freedom but finds it absolutely terrifying at the same time. “I didn’t like the things I did, Merlin, I didn’t like myself, and that’s how it started. The cutting.”

“How did you get out?”

“Do you believe in destiny?” Arthur asks and watches intently as Merlin’s face changes to one of confusion.

“I’ve never had a reason to,” he finally answers and Arthur hums around a soft smile. 

“Neither did I until a few years ago. There was a soup kitchen I went to some nights; hot food was a blessing if you could get it. Anyway, there was this volunteer.”

“Gwen?”

“You’d think,” Arthur chuckles, “but uh, no, no it was actually her brother, Elyan. He was a head chef at this restaurant and he would come across most evenings and bring all the left over stock. He was just one of the good guys, you know? But one night he brings his boss along and this guy is looking at me, I mean really staring me out and I start to think he’s going to swing a punch or something,” Merlin’s completely enthralled as Arthur remembers that night with a fond smile. “And then the guy says my name, out of the blue, Arthur Pendragon, and I remember thinking shit he’s a copper, he’s a copper and I’m going to get done…but then he hugged me.” 

Arthur watches as Merlin’s brows rise in surprise and he laughs at the memory of his uncle barrelling towards him. “That was Agravaine. I don’t know how he recognised me, the last time we saw each other I must have been about nine, ten? But he knew. He pretty much saved me from that point.”

“So he helped you stop, with the drinking and the cutting?” 

“He tried,” Arthur sighs, picking up his glass and taking a sip. He sets it back down and finds Merlin studying him. Arthur hopes it’s helping, in some twisted way or another. He wonders how much more he can say before he takes it too far, before he reveals too much. Though he’s not sure he can stop, with Merlin continuing to lean further across the table, subconsciously or not. With others, Arthur would see sympathy, or worse, pity, but with Merlin he feels something kindred. 

“People like to think that once you’re saved, you’re healed. It’s not always like that though. Stopping wasn’t easy. You’d think it would be, I mean, what did I have to be angry about now? I had a roof over my head, food, a job, friends…but that doesn’t change the feelings I had about myself. Didn’t stop me thinking about all the things my father had called me.” 

Arthur lays out his arms on the table, facing inwards. There are 34 scars on his arms. He’d counted, one by one as he’d made them. There are others on his thighs and the jut of his hips, silvery marks that are almost translucent. Those on his arms though, those are his battle wounds. He never forgets they’re there, no matter how flippant he may come across about baring them.

“It’s funny,” he begins, running the pad of his index finger over the darkest line on his left wrist. “You think you’ll never get to that stage where your life feels so worthless that it’s not even worth living. You think you’d never end up like that. You tell yourself that you’re cutting to make it stop, just for a little while. And yet, when you’re there with the razor in your hand…”

Arthur sucks in a breath, voice starting to strain as the moment returns to him in painstaking clarity. “Then one night I wasn’t going to stop myself. I was so…tired. I wasn’t—I pushed the blade harder. I was so close to ending it all. And then destiny stopped me.”

Merlin’s been quiet for so long that his voice comes out dry and choked when he murmurs. “Why do you say it was destiny?”

Arthur holds Merlin’s eye for a moment before he looks up and sees Gwaine coming towards them with their food. He shuffles awkwardly in his seat, sits back and fiddles with the napkin over his lap until he eventually lifts his head and faces Merlin once more. 

“Because I heard your voice.”

**

Merlin barely slept that night, as he replayed Arthur’s words over and again in his head; staring up at the ceiling and listening to the second-hand on the clock tick idly by. His voice, his words – ‘your song rescued me’ Arthur had said. Merlin didn’t know quite what to do with that. 

When he had so desperately needed them, the words failed him, as they have done for the past seven months. He’d sat across from Arthur, listened as he’d been brave enough to share himself with Merlin. And what had he done in return? Ran and fled like the weak man he is. Arthur hasn’t text him since; Merlin doesn’t blame him. He’d been so damn selfish. 

All he wants is to hole up in his bed. To smother himself in his blankets and keep out the light of day so that all that surrounds him is darkness. It begins to feel like it takes every ounce of willpower to even move lately. So the last place Merlin wants to be right now is sitting in Morgana’s office. He feels like a school boy brought in for scolding, as she peers at him over thin square frames. Her walls are lined in plaques and discs – gold, platinum, some diamond – Merlin looks around and spots his own cover art staring back at him. He takes it all in and feels the burden of expectation fall once more on his shoulders. Merlin curls himself onto one of the ridiculous looking chairs that Morgana assures him is fine art, but leaves him feeling like he’s sitting on an egg more than anything. The toe of his Converse bounces up and down nervously as she continues to just stare across at him in that vaguely challenging way until eventually she heaves a sigh and pushes back from her desk. 

“Please tell me you’ve written _something_ ,” she starts. “Got the beginnings of a melody, played a sequence of notes, penned a bloody sonnet, anything?” 

Merlin continues to focus on the scuff of his shoes, drawing his knee up closer to his chest. He can hear Morgana begin to drum her fingers on the arm of her chair. 

“I need something to show the label, Merlin, you got to give me something.”

“I’m trying but it’s just not coming.”

“Then tell me how to help you,” Morgana says voice strained, and it’s something Merlin never thought he’d see her do – plead. “Do you need me to get you in musicians, producers? Do you want me to phone Will? Should I fly you out to America?”

At the simple mention of the States Merlin collapses in on himself even more and vehemently shakes his head. “No, no I don’t want to go there. I just need you to get me more time.”

“It’s been three weeks since our last meeting with the exec team; they’re going to expect results soon. I’m fielding calls from them nearly every day.”

“Christmas; get me until then.” 

“Merlin, honey,” Morgana slides her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. She’s looking through various papers on her desk and as her eyes land on a certain slide, she pauses and runs a finger over the print. “Look, this may not be your ideal route, and you may not like it all that much, but hear me out.” 

Merlin gives her a silent nod, unfurling his legs and surprising himself when he actually manages to find a comfortable position in this monstrosity of a seat. 

“The label has a number of successful, talented songwriters on their books…”

“No.”

“If you just took a listen to some of the songs, you may find—“

“Morgana,” Merlin answers firm, the directness in his tone causing her to lean back in her chair with an alarmed expression. “I can’t sing other people’s songs. I just can’t.” 

“They’d be your songs; you’d make them your own.” 

“It’s not the same,” he argues. Merlin never usually allows his emotions to control him like this – he’s passionate about his music, of course he is, but lately he’s felt like he’s losing every thread of it. He can’t play, he can’t write and if they take this from him, if Morgana makes him fill his album with a collection of tracks that haven’t been created by him, then that’s music letting him down all over again. 

“My dad has taught me my whole life to write my own music. It’s the one thing, the only thing that’s important. How am I meant to sing something I don’t feel?”

Morgana heaves a sharp breath and rises to a stand, placing her hands on the table with a dry slap. “I don’t get you contracts to feel, Merlin, I get you contracts to sing,” she snaps and Merlin’s eyes widen. 

“No, you get me contracts to protect my best interest,” Merlin returns, “but maybe you don’t care about that any more.” 

“Merlin,” Morgana sighs, tilting her head and lowering her eyes but Merlin’s heard all he can bear to. So he walks out of the office, the sound of Morgana calling his name ringing in his ears.

**

“How many days has it been?” 

“Four,” Arthur replies, lifting two more freshly cleaned glasses from the crate and placing them under the bar. Four days of silence from Merlin. It doesn’t sound that long, to most others they wouldn’t bat an eyelid, but for Arthur it feels like weeks. Ever since they met, ever since that evening when they’d talked about everything but the one thing that mattered, they’d been a constant presence in each others lives. 

Having Merlin run out on him hadn’t exactly been the reaction Arthur was looking for, after he’d eventually managed to get the words out. After he’d told Merlin about the blade in his hands, the two cuts already on his arm, and then the voice. The voice that filtered through his bedroom to where he laid slumped against the bathroom floor and how it had hit him square in the chest.

_”Oh I would've known what I've been living for all along.”_

The razor blade had dropped from his fingers – clacking against the porcelain tiles. He’d risen to his feet, blood still slowly sleeping from the few shallow cuts he’d made earlier. He had stumbled towards the bedroom and seen Merlin’s face on the screen, serene and beautiful as his body hunched over the keys of a piano. His face was contorted with each word, living each emotion. 

Arthur hasn’t picked up a razor since. 

He hadn’t known what to expect when he eventually told Merlin – how his words and music had not just helped but saved him…had actually saved him. But he'd left with a muttered curse of, “I can’t—I can’t –“ and fled through the kitchens they had only thirty minutes earlier entered. 

It had hurt. Of course it had. But he didn’t push, allowed Merlin his space because, at the end of it all, what else could he do?

Gwen reaches across to cover his hand with hers; Arthur looks up and offers a sad smile in return. She gives it a gentle squeeze before returning to her end of the bar, continuing to stock the shelves with pint glasses. 

“Maybe you should ring him?” she suggests. They’re the only ones on this side of the room, the clock hanging in the centre pointing ever closer to midnight. Arthur’s wiping down the black marbled surface, ensuring the bar is all set for tomorrow’s lunch diners. There are a couple of other waiters laying cutlery and wine glasses on the tables but they’re far out of ear shot and Gwen pushes further. “I’m sure we’d have read about it if something was wrong.” Arthur shoots her a look and she holds up her hands in a placating manner. 

“I’m just saying, maybe you’re working yourself up over nothing?”

“Maybe,” Arthur concedes. 

“But I did kind of…” fuck – he can’t believe he’s about to admit this out loud but if anyone’s going to understand it’s Gwen. “I kind of Googled him.”

She raises her eyebrows but says nothing else and Arthur runs a hand over his tired face before continuing. “He’s apparently splitting from Morgana.” 

“Mmm,” Gwen hums nodding her head in agreement. Arthur shoots her a puzzled look and she scoffs, bending down to fill the bottom shelf, “I read Perez’s blog.” Arthur shakes his head and clucks his tongue. 

“Hey, he’s the go-to source for daily happenings.” Arthur throws a tea-towel towards her and can't help but laugh at her motherly scowl as she yanks it from her head. 

She straightens up and dusts her hands on her apron. “Do you believe it?”

“Not really – I mean, they have their differences but, oh who knows? I’m beginning to realise I may not have known him at all.” He leans against the bar, chin buried in his palm as Gwen sidles closer and runs a comforting hand over his back. 

Then his phone rings

**

“Merlin!”

Arthur calls, after he’s turned the key in the lock and pushed through the door. He doesn’t have to venture far before he, quite literally, stumbles across Merlin sprawled across a beanbag tucked in the corner of the living room. A bottle of what looks like Lambrini dangles from his fingers, liquid spilling over the top as Merlin struggles to sit upright. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Merlin asks stubbornly. 

“You called me, remember?”

From Merlin’s wide, guileless eyes, it’s quite clear he doesn’t remember, and if he does he’s a bloody fantastic actor. 

“Right,” Arthur continues, shaking his head. “Well you called, I’m here, and from the smell of it you’re going to have a wonderful hangover in the morning, so let’s get you up and into bed eh?”

“How did you get in here?”

“Percival.”

“What?”

“You know, tall guy, big muscles, likes to wear a cap and call you Miss Daisy.” 

“I know who Percy is,” Merlin all but snaps. Arthur is decidedly placing Merlin in the ‘sassy-angry-drunk’ phase of the evening. “I meant how did you get hold of him?” 

Arthur folds his arms across his chest, watching as Merlin rocks back and forth, like an upturned turtle, and it is definitely not the most hilariously cute thing Arthur has ever seen. He quickly stifles the smile on his face as Merlin continues to look up at him with a suspicious glint in his eye. 

“After you got him to drive me back and forth like a fair maiden, we did actually speak and hold conversations.”

Merlin groans, “You exchanged numbers?”

Arthur simply shrugs. “He’s an Arsenal fan,” he says as if that explains everything whilst Merlin breathes a heavy sigh and collapses back against the beanbag with an arm slung over his face. 

“Remind me to sack Percival in the morning.”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted,” Arthur replies. “What did you drink?” he asks, looking around the room, which, (for all intents and purposes) looks exactly like it always does. Merlin, it seems, is a rather tidy drunk. “Three cans of lager, peach schnapps and a bottle of Lambrini?”

“It’s all I had in the house,” Merlin’s sulking now and seems to have given up on getting out of the beanbag and instead finishes off whatever’s left of the bottle in his hand. 

“You are a complete lush.” 

“I told you I don’t usually drink. I just thought it’d help.”

“And did it?”

“No,” Merlin says sourly, and he looks so utterly ridiculous pouting away in a flipping beanbag of all things. “I sat there for two hours, and nothing,” he’s looking towards the piano forlornly. The lid is still up and the keys are glistening with what looks like spilled peach schnapps and Arthur frowns and begins to mentally Google whether that’s bad and possibly calling Percy for help with who he can get in to fix it when he hears Merlin sniffling from below. He’s not crying, not yet anyway, but his eyes are bloodshot and heavy – he doesn’t look like he’s seen sleep for days. 

“I just want to play.”

Arthur crouches down beside him, knees clacking against the wood-panelled floor. “When did you last sleep?” he asks but Merlin simply rolls onto his side to face the other way, bottle clattering to the floor and blessedly not shattering. 

“Why can’t I play anymore?” A broken sound hitches in Merlin’s throat and Arthur crawls across the floorboards to face him. 

“Okay, I think this is definitely venturing into the emotional crying part of the evening. Let’s get you to bed.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says quietly, bottom lip jut out and Arthur curses himself for not being able to look away. He brings up a hand to push back the stray strands of hair that fall over Merlin’s face – he looks so vulnerable like this. His usually guarded exterior breaks down and something twists in Arthur’s gut as he watches Merlin’s eyes flicker closed and he realises how tiring and all consuming it must be, to put on this front all day, every day. 

Arthur allows his fingers to run to the back of Merlin’s neck, curl around the nape and brush a thumb back and forth lazily. “No need for drunken apologies,” he says quietly but Merlin continues to lie there un-answering. He moves his other arm to slot under Merlin’s knees and after rocking on the balls of his feet manages to spring himself upright and cradle Merlin against his chest. 

The apartment-come-house is huge, but Arthur’s soon able to find the master bedroom after first stumbling into the bathroom and then what looks to be an actual pantry. 

“Who has a bloody pantry these days?” Arthur mutters under his breath, and if Merlin’s face wasn’t pressed tightly into the crook of his neck, he’d be sure he heard “prat” whispered against his skin. 

He eventually sets Merlin on the soft downy bed, which, (like nearly everything in his house) is huge and could quite comfortably fit four people. Arthur sits on the edge of the mattress as Merlin wraps an arm around a pillow and tugs it to prop under his chin. His shirt is sticky with alcohol and Arthur debates whether to wrestle it off him, but then what the hell would Merlin think when he wakes up and finds himself shirtless? The decision, however, is made for him, when Merlin’s hand flops on his chest and a frown pulls his lips. Arthur probably has an utterly soppy smile on his face but Merlin is all oddly long limbs and flailing grabby hands as Arthur finally manages to slip the shirt over his head. The pale expanse of Merlin’s chest is dusted with coarse black hair that tapers down his navel and further under the hem of his jeans. Arthur allows himself a brief look, just a short few seconds to memorise the angles of Merlin’s body before he pulls the ends of the blanket around him. 

Arthur’s making to stand and walk out when cold fingers coil around his wrist and he turns to find Merlin’s sleepy eyes blinking up at him. 

“I am sorry,” the words are said so quietly Arthur has to shuffle closer to hear. “For leaving, for walking out; I wanted to stay.” 

“Don’t worry about it, just sleep.” 

“I was scared,” Merlin’s eyes are half-lidded but the grip on his arm tightens and Arthur doesn’t think before he’s bringing his other hand to swipe over Merlin’s brow. 

“Sleep,” he says again.

“Stay,” Merlin replies, and Arthur continues running his fingers across Merlin’s forehead until his breath evens out and he drifts into slumber. 

**

Of all things Merlin expects to wake up to, it’s not to the smell of bacon wafting in through the open bedroom door. He pushes up on the palm of his hands and all too quickly slumps back to his elbows with a groan. His head catches up with his movements and a dull pain proceeds to pound against his temple. The blankets are pooled around his waist and he suddenly realises that he’s wearing significantly less clothes then he remembers. The night before returns to him in blurred snippets as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and tries to get the floor to stop spinning.

When he steps into the kitchen, (clean t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms in place), it’s to find Arthur at the stove, two frying pans on the go. The toaster pops and Arthur spins on his heels and finally notices Merlin stood in the doorway. 

“Morning,” 

“You stayed.”

“You asked me to,” Arthur replies with an unreserved smile and Merlin can feel the tips of his cheeks already start to blush. 

“Um, where did you get all this from?”

“I nipped down to the Tesco on the corner.” It’s as though Arthur can sense Merlin’s unease as he snorts and returns to buttering the fresh toast he’s pulled out. “Don’t worry I went undercover, baseball cap, sunglasses, the works.”

Merlin’s lips tug up despite himself as he takes a seat at the breakfast island to find a copy of ‘The Sun’ laid out. He swiftly folds it over and pushes it away. 

“I almost don’t want to tell you I’m a vegetarian.”

Arthur drops the spatula in his hand against the edge of the frying pan, “Of course you’re a bloody vegetarian.” 

“Fun Merlin fact 101,” Merlin says, “It’s in the annual.”

Arthur mock gasps, “There’s an annual?” he twists and gives Merlin a grin over his shoulder and they both chuckle under their breaths. “Scrambled eggs on toast do?”

“Mmm,” Merlin hums, resting his still-thumping head in the palm of his hand and allows his eyelids to drift shut for a few seconds. He only opens them again when he hears the clatter of a plate being put before him and he looks up to Arthur’s cheerful face as he slides in the chair beside his own. 

They sit and eat in comfortable silence. Arthur’s foot coming to rest on the rung of Merlin’s stool and they’re not even touching but the closeness of it, the intimacy, causes something hot to pool in his stomach and it’s _nice_. Merlin hasn’t been this close to someone for so long he’s forgotten what it feels like to want it, to want more. He chances a sneak peak at Arthur through his lashes, focuses on the tufts of hair that hang low and dust across his eyebrows. Opening up to people has never been easy for him, lately more than ever, but he finds he wants to share these things with Arthur because he might just be the only person in Merlin’s life who understands. 

“Thanks for this,” he breaks into the quiet, fork pointing towards his plate and Arthur’s glancing towards him with those wide blue eyes and the sensation of longing hits him square in the chest. “Thanks for last night, for coming.” 

Arthur shrugs, “It’s what you do when you care for someone.” 

The suggestion in his tone leaves Merlin with little doubt to his meaning. He’s lived with this control over his feelings for so long, always pushed his emotions towards his music rather than give them to the people in his life because people can abuse them – can twist and manipulate and worst of all leave. But music, music is innocent, yet now even that’s abandoned him. The thought of offering them up to Arthur leaves him terrified. But then Merlin casts his eyes over Arthur’s arms, and they tell a story of struggle – of… Merlin takes a shaky breath. 

“When you told me, the other night, about what you’ve been through, about what you almost did, I— I felt unworthy,” Merlin sighs and doesn’t want to think about what he’s saying, because if he does the words will stop and he can’t stop now, he won't. “You’ve been through so much. Overcome more than anyone should have to and here I am whining over not playing a god-damned piano. It’s just—so insignificant in comparison.”

He can tell Arthur wants to say something, to probably tell him ‘no, you’re wrong’, and ‘don’t you see?’ but he stays quiet; waits. 

“Why do you even want to spend time with me?” 

Arthur drags his stool closer and the screech it draws out is painful to his ears. “You lost your parents, Merlin, in the most sudden and cruellest of ways,” he says quietly. “There’s no set guideline of what you must feel or how you cope. You should never feel unworthy over your grief.” Arthur places his hand over Merlin’s on the countertop, thumb rubbing back and forth over his knuckles. 

“I like you, rather a lot actually,” Merlin’s heart quickens at the words and a small smile takes over his lips. Arthur’s fingers continue to stroke over the back of his hand, touch light but warm. “But,” he whispers and Merlin can’t help but draw his eyes up to look at Arthur, that small syllable hanging heavy between them. “If you want this, if we try to make a go of it, we can’t keep weighing each other down. There’s this guy that I talk to, I’ve been going to him for the past few years…”

“A therapist?” Merlin asks, worry lines creasing over his brow.

“Going to a therapist doesn’t mean you’re crazy, it just means you need a little help. There’s no shame in that.”

“No, of course, but…I want to talk to you.” 

“And you can, God I want you to, I do, but I don’t want that to become all we are. We both have our baggage, Merlin, but that’s not who we have to be.” 

“I feel like we’ve done this all wrong. That we know all this dark, awful stuff about each other and have completely skipped over the little things.”

“You want the little things?” Arthur asks with a smirk, tilting his head to meet Merlin’s eye. “My favourite colour’s red,” he starts. “I once got my ear pierced because I thought Nick from the Backstreet Boys was cute, my lucky number’s 13, I hate spicy food and I secretly quite like One Direction, but you can't tell anyone that, especially Gwaine. Better?”

“Well,” Merlin blinks, “I just found out you have a boy band fetish.”

Arthur laughs; the sound is low and Merlin can feel it rumble between them. “Only for pretty boys who can sing.”

“This boy hasn’t sung for a while,” Merlin tells him gently and Arthur is so, so close. 

“He will,” Arthur whispers, the words sealed against Merlin’s mouth as he leans in the final distance and catches Merlin’s bottom lip between his own. A hand slides up to cup his jaw and Merlin finds himself unable to move or react, until Arthur’s thumb brushes against the arc of his cheekbone, their knees knock together awkwardly and it’s not perfect, but it’s just him and Arthur. 

So he lets himself go and sinks into the solid lines of Arthur’s body, curls his fingers around the ridge of Arthur’s wrist and holds on for dear life. Arthur’s lips are soft as they lavish his mouth with sweet kisses. Merlin arches as Arthur makes the most delicious of noises against the round of his chin, peppers a trail down his Adams apple to the ridges of his collarbone. Arthur has one hand pressed against his chest, palm covering his heartbeat and he doesn’t need Arthur to tell him it's beating double time, he can feel it almost wanting to burst from his ribcage. A few seconds pass and Arthur returns to his lips, and Merlin finds his hands buried in Arthur’s hair pulling him closer. Merlin loses track of time but it doesn’t matter, because he never wants this to end. 

**

When Merlin steps through the heavy oak doors, the first thing he notices is the light. Large paned windows cover two sides of the room, bathing the floor in mid-afternoon sunshine. There’s no chaise-lounge, but simply two leather armchairs, rich green in colour and definitely more inviting than the hideous contraptions in Morgana’s office. There’s a desk tucked away in one corner, a few photo frames on top, they’re turned away from view but Merlin imagines they’re filled with family or friends…or grandchildren, he thinks, as the door creaks open and an older gentleman walks in. 

When Arthur had first suggested a therapist, Merlin wasn’t too keen on the idea. He associated going to therapy with being weak, unable to school your emotions to how you wanted them. It had taken a while for Merlin to realise that you can only control your feelings for so long, before the wall cracks and everything crashes down on you like a wave. You just have to try and keep your head above the water, Arthur had told him, and sometimes you need a lifeline. And that started with Morgana, apologising and opening up to her like he’d never done before. 

Doctor Gaius wasn’t a high earning psychotherapist; his contact book wasn’t bulging with celebrity code names and he would always tell a patient what they needed to hear, not necessarily what they _wanted_ to. Merlin knew he would need to consult Morgana with this, save the vultures swooping in and taking the few scraps of truths they can find to morph into an effusively more juicy fabrication. She hadn’t been thrilled by the prospect of Merlin pouring his heart out to a fortuitous shrink, but even she was beginning to clutch at straws for remedies to restore Merlin’s muse and their partnership. 

“Ah, Mr Emrys, I presume,” he projects into the room, the boom of his voice reverberating off the glass. “Please take a seat.”

Merlin looks between the two chairs. “Which one?”

“Whichever you’d like.” 

Merlin takes the one facing away from the desk, out towards the view of Hammersmith ten floors up. His eyes roam the tops of the buildings for a moment as Doctor Gaius settles in the chair opposite, Dictaphone in hand. 

“Do you mind if I record?” he asks, placing it on the table between them where two tall glasses of water also sit. Merlin shakes his head and folds his hands in his lap, thumbs nervously twiddling together as he stares down at his scuffed Converses. 

“Now tell me, Merlin, what would you like to discuss today?” 

“Aren’t you supposed to ask me questions about my childhood, do blot-tests that kind of thing?” 

“Some practitioners chose to do that, I, however, prefer to listen.”

Merlin nods and raises his head; the old-man is simply watching him, hands steeped and elbows resting on the armrest. “You’re not taking any notes?” 

“No. I always think that’s rather rude, don’t you, if someone’s scribbling away writing whilst you’re having a conversation? Plus, the old memory hasn’t failed me yet.” He chuckles, tapping a finger against the side of his temple; Merlin offers him a tight smile in return and continues to fidget. This wasn’t at all what he was expecting and it’s thrown him slightly off-guard. The room isn’t dark or foreboding; no certificates hang on the wall. It’s light and airy and Dr Gaius is casting gentle eyes upon him as though he’s an old friend. 

“I hear you’re a musician.”

“That’s right.” 

“Do you like the classics?” Gaius asks, leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him, ankles crossed. 

Merlin’s mind drifts and remembers sitting beside his mother at the piano when he was a child, in awe of how supple her fingers moved over the ivory keys. Hunith’s arm would stretch around his body, cradle him to her side as her fingertips danced to the sounds of Liszt’s ‘Love Dream’. He could feel, rather than hear, her hum along to the piece, her whole body rippling with the melody as she’d finish the end of the refrain and beam down at him. He would look up to see his father watching them in the doorway, tresses of hair falling across his eyes as he launched into the room and swept Merlin up into his arms. He’d spin until they grew dizzy and then huddle together over a tub of ice-cream in the kitchen. 

These are the memories he returns to every day; to times when he’d felt safe and secure and loved. They warm his bones in this cold November chill but they also cause something dark and yearning to stab into his heart. 

“I do,” he finally replies, realising he’d been silent for several minutes. Doctor Gaius’ gaze is still on him, heavy lidded eyes watching him intently. 

“Bach and Beethoven, those are names that’ll surpass through the ages.”

“Anton Rubinstein has always been my favourite,” Merlin supplies, finding the tension in his shoulders begin to ease and his limbs start to relax into the chair. “The way he played. It was all about the expression of the piece.”

“And that’s what you try to do with your work?” 

“Yes, I try. That’s something my parents have always told me to do.”

“Tell me about them,” Doctor Gaius asks. 

So Merlin does. 

**

It’s easy after that for Arthur to seamlessly slot into Merlin’s life. The good, the bad, all of it mixed together. 

Instead of texts, Arthur’s there in person and when Merlin gets those moments where he just wants to shut himself off from the world, Arthur’s around to pull him out of it. Merlin still finds it amazing how Arthur can be so upbeat, how he manages to school that big toothy smile on his face all the God damn time. 

It’s not as simple as all that though, as he soon comes to learn. Arthur takes things day by day, and some of those are bad. He snaps and is short-tempered and then profusely apologetic about it all a few hours later. Those are the times when it’s Merlin’s turn to take care of Arthur. And within a few weeks, they’ve become more to each other than either knew they needed. 

Arthur’s also grown to be close friends with Percival, as they spend their many car journeys discussing the merits of Arsenal’s Van Persie and cursing whether their club will ever see silverware again. Most evenings has Arthur travelling the short distance from Soho to Hampstead after work. They cook and watch movies, and get into arguments over ‘The Only Way is Essex’ versus ‘Made in Chelsea’. Arthur beats him constantly at Poker whilst Merlin has him won when it comes to Trivial Pursuit, though when the Scrabble board is brought out, it’s a whole different ball game. 

They pull cushions on the floor, ones that probably cost a days’ wage for Arthur, and settle around the coffee table. Arthur challenges each and every one of Merlin’s moves, which Merlin finds hilarious considering some of the things Arthur tries to spell out.

“That is definitely not allowed.”

“It’s a word.”

“It’s a boy band!” Merlin cries, dimples forming in the creases of his cheeks. “And you can’t even spell it. N*Sync has an asterisk in it.”

“That’s what the blank tile is for.”

“You are the worst scrabble player ever,” Merlin intones dryly, watching as Arthur gleefully tallies up his points on the notepad. “I already gave you Westlife and Take That and even Boyzone, who really were just rubbish. No more.”

Somehow it ends with scrabble tiles scattered across the floor and Merlin pinned down into the cushions, Arthur mouthing “surrender?” against his neck between bruising kisses. 

It’s at that moment of course when Morgana decides to burst through the door and scowl down at them with hands on her hips. Arthur laughs against Merlin’s chest and pushes up on his knees, straddled across Merlin’s lap, who is left a blushing mess hidden amongst the pillows. 

“Hi, I’m Arthur,” he says, brazen as you’d like and it’s silent for a few moments until Morgana’s glare changes to one of amusement. Her lips pull over her teeth as she smiles down widely at the pair of them, dropping her hands and slipping her handbag from her shoulders. 

“I like him. He can stay,” she decides, burrowing in her bag and pulling out a thick wad of papers that do not at all look like an exciting way to spend the afternoon. “But not right now, we have business to discuss. So crawl out from under those thighs and I’ll meet you in the office. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again, Arthur.” Morgana waves over her shoulder, and Arthur lifts a hand back as she stalks from the room in a clip-clop of Manolo Blahniks. Arthur’s hand is still raised as Merlin smacks him on the chest but that simply makes Arthur grab it between his and kiss Merlin’s fingers one by one. 

“You know you could always come round mine?”

“It’s difficult,” Merlin sighs, pushing up on his elbows. He taps at Arthur’s side for him to move, which he eventually does, begrudgingly. 

“We don’t live in squalor, you know?” Arthur rocks on the ball of his feet and pushes up to stand in front of Merlin, running a hand down his crumpled shirt. “Heated plumbing, running water, even have an indoor loo.”

“Remind me why I put up with you again?”

“My dry wit, my devilish good looks, my charm?”

“No,” Merlin teases, walking towards the front door, Arthur hot on his heels. 

“Is it that thing I can do with my tongue, when I just—“ Arthur quickens his step and wraps solid arms around Merlin’s waist, holding him up against the wall, teeth and tongue working over the lobe of his ear. 

“Arthur, no, shh,” Merlin squirms, hands falling on Arthur’s shoulders but making no effort whatsoever to push him away. “But yes, that’s all you're good for. Now go.” 

Merlin finally ushers Arthur away, after stealing two more quick kisses, and leans back against the closed door, with a stupidly big grin on his face. 

“Merlin,” Morgana’s voice pierces through his happy daze and Merlin heaves a sigh before pushing off the door and walking down the hallway. 

**

“So he doesn’t leave the flat at all?” Gwen asks, pushing the trolley further down the aisle. Arthur’s close at her side, looking extremely put out at being dragged grocery shopping. He contents himself by munching on a bag of grapes as Gwen guides them around the supermarket. 

“Rarely,” Arthur replies, popping another grape in his mouth. “If he does, it’s only to go to Morgana’s or to therapy or a meeting, otherwise, nothing. Getting him to go to Gwaine and Elena’s that one time was tough enough, and well, you know how that ended.” 

Gwen hums noncommittally, turning the list over in her hand before scanning the shelves and pulling a couple of jars of pasta sauce down. “Why don’t you start with something small,” she suggests. “Like, coffee?” 

Arthur scoffs. “That’s not small, he won’t go for that.”

“Okay, how about a walk somewhere quiet? He lives in Hampstead right? Maybe you can take him up on the heath?” 

“You’re not suggesting we go dogging, are you?” Arthur mock-gasps and has his grapes taken off him in return. 

“You don’t want my help, Arthur Pendragon, fine.” 

“No, no, come on now,” Arthur quickens his pace to keep up with Gwen, who’s pushing the trolley with more determination as she turns the corner and ventures up the next aisle. “But seriously, taking him out for a walk in broad daylight is just never going to happen. I don’t think he’s ready for it…us, all that to come out in the press.”

“Are you?”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“You say this now, wait until it gets crazy. I’ve seen how it works.”

“You and your damn gossip blogs,” Arthur snorts, toying with a bag of Doritos and slinging them in the trolley. 

“They’re informative,” she pouts. 

“More like trashy.”

“Well, be that as it may, your lovely face may soon be plastered across them.” Gwen grins cheekily up at him and he offers her an overly false smarmy smile of his own. “How about the cinema?” she continues on resting her forearms on the handle of the trolley, “it’s dark.”

Arthur stops to consider it for a moment. “Possibly.”

“You can’t keep spending all your time at his house. You need to help him get out, build his confidence up again.”

“I don’t know, they’re pretty good dates,” Arthur chuckles to himself and Gwen rolls her eyes and pushes forward.

“Ugh, men.”

Arthur picks up a bag of Maltesers off the shelf and dangles them suggestively in front of Gwen’s nose. She looks up at him in annoyance and almost immediately surrenders, because Arthur’s doing a fantastic impression of some pitiful puppy. But before she can even take them from his fingers, he’s dropping them in the trolley and skipping ahead like some gap-toothed four year old. 

“How about you just ask him round ours? That’s ‘technically’,” she air-quotes, “behind closed doors.”

“Tried that, he still wasn’t going for it.”

“What if we were throwing a Christmas party?” 

“Are you kidding?” Arthur asks. “I’m struggling to get Merlin out on his own; do you really think he’s going to willingly go somewhere there’s a whole heap of people?” 

Gwen shrugs and ushers them towards a till point. “Who knows? But if you tell him it’ll mean a lot to you, which it would,” she adds, bending to unpack the groceries. “Then I’m sure that’ll give him more conviction to go. You need to keep pushing him, Arthur; he’ll thank you for it in the end.” 

Arthur nods wordlessly, resting at the foot of the trolley and allowing Gwen’s words to sink in. 

“You know, you can bloody help here,” she curses and Arthur laughs and joins her. 

**

The street is dark when Percival pulls up. The lamps by the roadside flicker fitfully and the only light creeps out from house windows. Merlin gives Percy a nod as he slides out of the car and heads towards the house, where the unmistakable sounds of Shakin’ Stevens seeps through the walls. Merlin bounces on the balls of his feet, casting one more glance back towards the car that is still parked in its place, offering him a way out. But he shakes his head, turning forward once more and brings up an unsteady hand to knock on the door. It takes a few moments for it to swing open and when it does, the blare of ‘Merry Christmas Everyone’ hits his ears. 

Arthur’s standing in front of him, hair mussed and cheeks rosy. Confusion flickers over his face for a beat and Merlin tracks the changes in the lightness of his eyes, the quirk of his lips as Arthur realises it actually _is_ Merlin standing on his doorstep and he swoops in with a laugh, wrapping his arms around Merlin’s waist and holding him close. 

Merlin breathes a happy sigh against his ear, hands squeezing Arthur’s shoulders, until he looks around edgily and pushes Arthur inside. 

“What are you doing here?” Arthur asks, closing the door behind them.

“Is it okay? I didn’t call—“

“Are you kidding me? Of course it is. I hoped you’d come, but I didn’t want to push you.”

Merlin’s toying with the fringe of his scarf, curling the tassels around his fingers. It hasn’t been easy coming round to Arthur’s. It may seem perfectly simple; he was his…boyfriend now, and even that still felt a foreign word in Merlin’s mouth. 

But nothing had been simple in Merlin’s life, for as long as he could remember. Sure he can go wherever he wants, do whatever he cares to, as long as he doesn’t mind sharing it with the four or five photographers that hang on his tail. And Arthur was something Merlin doesn’t want to share. Not just yet. 

“I spoke to Gaius,” Merlin tells him, resting back on the wall. They’re still in the narrow hallway, and he can hear sounds of laughter and music coming from further within. “He told me that just because my parents are gone that I shouldn’t stop doing the things that remind me of them. But that maybe I should begin to make some new traditions, too.” 

Arthur’s leaning on the wall opposite, foot sliding between his own. He’s looking at Merlin with that smile again: the one that’s gentle and unassuming. 

“This was my mum’s,” Merlin reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a small figurine. It’s an angel, strings of gold woven through her wings, matching the harp in her hands. Merlin slides a finger through the loop at the top and holds out the ornament. “I don’t know, I just thought.”

Arthur takes a step towards him, and in the shrunken hall that’s all he needs to be right in front of Merlin. He runs a finger down the decoration; there are a few chips over the base but otherwise… “It’s beautiful.” 

Warmth floods through Merlin as the heat from Arthur’s body presses against his chest and before he can think of any reasons not to, he lifts a hand to cup the back of Arthur’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss. The touch starts gentle (as nearly all their kisses do) before Arthur slides into the curves of Merlin’s body, placing a palm against the base of Merlin’s spine. They nip and tease each other’s lips until Merlin slides a tongue over the roof of Arthur’s mouth and the groan that it inspires sends a shiver through his bones. Merlin’s fingers weave into sand-coloured hair, tugging to bring closer, then pulling away to suck kisses against Arthur’s jaw. 

They continue to lean there, rutting against each other like school boys until a squeak sounds from afar and they both stop and turn their heads to find Gwen bashfully staring at the ground. Arthur groans and runs the tip of his nose along the line of Merlin’s ear, places a soft lingering kiss on the skin behind before drawing himself up to full height and dragging Merlin with him. 

“Guinevere,” Arthur addresses. “Merlin brought us a decoration for the tree.”

Gwen’s eyes light up as she skips towards Merlin and discovers the porcelain angel in his hands. Merlin can’t help but grin at her enthusiasm as she asks, “May I?” Taking the ornament from his upturned palm and holding it up to the light where it glistens. 

“It’s gorgeous. We’ll put it right at the top!” She spins, dress flapping out around her as she heads back into the living room. Arthur catches Merlin’s wrist and follows. Merlin takes a deep shaky breath. Arthur must be able to feel the quickening of his pulse under his fingers as he guides Merlin forward as they step into…an empty room? 

“Where is everybody?” Merlin asks confused, waiting for the penny to drop. He panics for a second that this is all some kind of weird surprise thing and people will be jumping out behind cupboards and settees. 

“There is no party. Never was.”

Merlin looks around, mouth hanging slightly open as the stereo skips for a beat and then Slade begins to thrum through the speakers. The TV is also on and the roar of laughter on the screen shows some comedy stand up show. And oh, it’s all starting to click.

“I just wanted you to know that you could do it…if you wanted. Be around other people.”

Merlin stares at him, shocked, for a moment, before he gives Arthur a sound slap on the top of his arm. “You insufferable bastard,” he says and then hits him twice more. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Arthur’s laughing now, dancing out the way of Merlin’s hands. “But it worked didn’t it? You’re here.” Merlin stops hitting him and pauses for breath, his cheeks are flushed and well, he has to admit, begrudgingly, that Arthur, if nothing else, continues to push him out of his comfort zone. 

“I demand chocolate,” he says, “plenty of chocolate.” 

“I think we can manage that.”

Arthur threads his fingers through the loop of Merlin’s jeans and yanks him close, until their hips align, and the breathy sigh that leaves his mouth is not entirely innocent. Which is when, of course, Guinevere walks back into the room, a pitcher in one hand and a box in the other. 

“Who’s up for Scrabble? I have non-alcoholic eggnog!” 

Merlin looks back towards Arthur and can’t help the snort that puffs from his nose. Gwen looks between them, confused.

“What’s so funny?” 

**

“Are you crying?” 

“It’s an emotional movie.”

“Pfft,” Arthur snorts, throwing a pillow across the room to smack Gwen in the face. She catches it before it hits her though and flips him the finger. 

Merlin watches them with a smile on his lips, sprawled as he is along the couch, tucked against Arthur’s side. His eyes are feeling heavy as the hot mugginess of the room wraps around his bones and leaves him sleepy. 

“I agree with Gwen,” he mumbles, stretching his arms above his head. “That little kid racing through the airport gets me every time.”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Arthur sighs, fingers moving to tickle Merlin under his jumper, travelling up from where they’ve been tracing patterns along the jut of his hip. There’s a blanket wrapped around them, their hands entwined underneath for most of the movie. It’s nice, these soft little touches, having someone map the curves of his body as though he’s the most refined work of art. Merlin squirms as Arthur’s fingers dance higher up his side and they laugh against each other’s necks as Gwen blows her nose loudly. 

“It’s just, he gives his heart to Keira Knightly and she just stands there, and he has the carollers playing and the sign boards and…and...” 

“I think someone’s had too much brandy in her eggnog,” Arthur stage whispers not so quietly against Merlin’s temple and yelps when Gwen throws the tissue box towards his head. This time, unlike Arthur, she doesn’t miss. 

“Just because you two are sober bores,” she grumbles standing, picking up the mess of tissues she’s been surrounded in and stuffing them in the pockets of her dressing gown. “I’m heading to bed,” she says behind a yawn, bending down to place a kiss against Merlin’s cheek. “Night, boys.” 

Merlin smiles up at her lazily, having to duck out the way as she goes to run a hand through Arthur’s hair and give a sharp slap to the side of his face instead. Arthur untangles a foot from the rumple of blankets to deliver a soft kick to the backs of her knees and she curses in what Merlin thinks sounds like French and shuffles out the room. 

“She’s a happy drunk,” Merlin says sarcastically, shifting to sit up properly, resting the point of his elbows on his knees and rubbing the heel of his palms into tired eyes. 

“I don’t think you’re one to talk, Mr Lambrini.”

“One time, one sodding time.”

Arthur smirks and runs a hand down the arch of Merlin’s back, thumb pressing along the knobs of his spine. Merlin wants nothing more than to lean back, shed his jumper and feel the pad of Arthur’s fingers over his skin. But there are certain barriers that take a little longer to break down. He’s immersed himself in Arthur’s kisses, taken all the not so innocent brush of hands over his thigh and the dip of his stomach. Though when those fingers travel further, push that little bit harder, Merlin can’t help but grow quiet and turn away. He’s no blushing virgin, but it’s been so long since he’s felt like this under someone’s hands, like the slightest touch could make him break. He just wants to wait…a little bit longer. 

“I better get going,”

“It's 2 AM,” Arthur says, leaning forward and curling himself against Merlin’s back. “Stay.”

“I can’t. I have Morgana coming round in the morning. Plus do you really think me staying here is the best idea?”

“Because waking Percival up at two in the morning to come and pick you up from the other side of town is?” 

“I could get a cab.”

“You could,” he murmurs, pressing barely-there kisses to the back of Merlin’s neck. “I’m not going to molest you in your sleep, you know, as hard as that is to resist.” Arthur’s mouth is a hot burn against his skin, lips soft as he sucks his way across Merlin’s throat. Merlin can barely keep his eyes open as he tilts his head and allows Arthur to nose along the ridge of his ear. 

“Come to bed with me,” Arthur whispers, not entirely innocent, but gentle in its sincerity, so Merlin does. 

**

The grin has yet to leave Merlin’s face as he steps out of the car and waves a goodbye to Percy, who’s looking far too full of it through the rear-view mirror. 

Merlin woke this morning to early rays of sunshine slicing through the gap in the curtains, Arthur’s foot hooked in the curve of his ankle and the weight of an arm slung low across his hip. He’d feigned sleep for an extra few minutes, allowed himself to indulge for a bit longer, until Arthur mouthed good morning against his shoulder and then his neck, and then his lips. Arthur had kept true to his word. There had been no ‘molesting’ the night before, just plenty of this. Lazy kisses with eager tongues – it was the best morning Merlin could remember. 

He slides the key in the lock and shuffles through the door. The lights are already turned on and Merlin has a moment to wonder whether he’d forgotten to switch them off last night when Morgana steps into the hallway, heels clattering on the hardwood floor. One hand is curled high on her hip, the charcoal blazer she wears riding up. In the other she holds her blackberry and things are rarely good when Morgana has that look on her face. 

“What is it?” he asks, because it must be something bad if she hasn’t even spoken yet. 

Morgana simply turns her hand over and offers him her phone. He rushes forward and takes it from her fingers, thumbing the keys and – oh. There’s his face staring back at him. Same shirt, same jeans, same mussed up hair he’d been unable to control because damn Arthur and his insistent fingers. 

There were three shots of him walking down the garden path, Arthur stood shirtless in the doorway watching him. And it’s obvious, so fucking candid that the gossip blog doesn’t even try to be suggestive with their title, just states it as it is.

**Merlin Emrys’ All Night Tryst with Blonde.’**

Merlin has to bite on his tongue to stop the tears that prick behind his eyes from falling. 

“How many sites?”

“Most of them,” Morgana tells him, striding forward and plucking her phone from his limp hand. “You’re trending on Twitter, darling.” 

It’s all too much and he’s tried so hard, so god damn hard, to keep a low profile. He’s lived his life sheltered away to prevent this kind of thing happening. Now they’ll take this too and the thought of that, the thought of them taking Arthur…Merlin can’t stand it. Morgana’s quiet by his side and he must be dreaming or ill because she’s running a hand down his arm and sliding her fingers between his, grip fierce. 

“What do you want me to do?”

**

It’s an hour later, and whilst the dust has somewhat settled, Morgana is still busy talking to…someone on her mobile. To be honest, Merlin’s lost track.

It had taken him half an hour to convince Morgana that this is what he wanted, how he wanted to play it. She was hesitant at first, fixing him with an assessing glare that he’d seen her use on many a frightened soul. Then somewhere around the twenty-sixth minute in, she softened her expression and a hint of a smile took over. Then she took off and whirled into motion, doing whatever it is she does so brilliantly. After her fifth call and her repeated use of the word _fornication_ , Merlin flees to the sanctum of his bedroom and clicks the door shut. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, hands pressed hard against his knees. He can hear Morgana hovering somewhere in the hallway, heels clopping and voice rising to a pique every now and then. The clock on his bedside table counts the seconds as they slip by. Merlin tries to clear his head of any thoughts or worries and focuses on the toneless beeps. The pips begin to drone in Merlin’s ears, numbs his senses, to the point where he almost misses his own mobile buzzing in his pocket. He takes it out and sees Arthur’s name flash across the screen. After a few uncertain moments, Merlin catches it before it eventually rings out. 

“Arthur.”

“Hi,” Arthur’s voice breathes down the line and Merlin shivers at the memory of that mouth whispering good morning against his skin just a few short hours ago. 

“Hi.” 

“I need to—“

“I thought you were at work?” Merlin cuts in. He doesn’t know why that’s the first thing to leave his lips, not sure why he’s trying to stall this conversation when he has a feeling he knows exactly where it’s going. He can hear clattering pots and distant yells in the background, and it’s not hard to deduce Arthur’s hiding out in the kitchens of Agravaine’s. 

“What? I am. Merlin, I need to warn you about something.”

“Arthur.”

“No, you—you got to listen. I don’t know how but,”

“They know,” Merlin finishes for him. Arthur exhales a ragged sigh right into the speaker and Merlin has to pull back from the distorted crackling down the line. When he places the phone back to his ear, there’s a faint murmuring of conversation and Merlin can just make out Gwen’s voice hushed with Arthur’s. 

He sounds panicked and Merlin feels guilty for getting Arthur stuck in this mess. This was why he didn’t date, why he didn’t stray out of the security of his house unless absolutely necessary. “Are you OK?” he asks kindly and is not at all prepared for the snort of what seems to be derision returned. 

“Me? Of course I’m okay, it’s you Merlin, are you okay?” 

“I’m not some delicate wallflower, you know,” he snaps back unthinkingly and Arthur huffs a frustrated breath. 

“That’s not,” Arthur’s voice bites off and Merlin curses how his guards shoot right back up whenever the media’s involved. “I don’t get any of this,” he continues, tone measured, and Merlin’s sure Gwen has something to do with soothing his temper right now. “There was, Merlin, there was this guy earlier. He looked just like any customer but then—he wanted me to do a kiss and tell on you. I said no, obviously. Told him where he could go with his cheap Mickey Mouse story. I would never. You know I would never do that, don’t you?”

Merlin doesn’t miss a beat as he whispers quietly, “I know.” Because he does. 

“Good, because there’s more.”

“More?” Merlin repeats. He should probably call Morgana in, let her listen so she’ll know exactly what they’re dealing with. But he won’t, and it’s selfish, but he’s about to share Arthur with the rest of the nation, and well, he wants Arthur to himself for just a bit longer.

“He knew stuff…everything. He knew everything, about me. “

Merlin rubs the heel of his palm into his eye. “I’m so sorry you got dragged into this.”

“The guy said if I did his story, then he’d stop the rest getting out, says he’ll make it disappear.”

It won't, Merlin wants to say. Once one of them knows the truth, it’s only a matter of time before they all discover it. That’s what vultures do. Scavenge. But Merlin doesn’t say any of this, doesn’t tell him it’s a bit too late for all that, because he wants to give Arthur a choice, offer him an out, if he wants to take it. 

“Well, I,” Merlin clears his throat and tries again. “I understand if you want to make that happen.”

“No, I don’t – I don’t care about all that. I’m not worried for me, it’s you. I’m just some waiter in Soho with a fucked up past, but you. You’ve got something to lose. If you’re seen with someone like me, it can ruin your whole image, your whole career.” 

“Stop doing that.”

“What?”

“Being all noble and self-deprecating. You’re not just a waiter, Arthur. Fucked up, maybe,” he says flippantly. Arthur snorts down the line and a smile returns to Merlin’s face. “But never just a waiter.”

A heavy silence lulls between them and Merlin tips himself to fall back on the bed, head cushioned by the layers of blankets and feet dangling off the end. They listen to each other breathing for several moments until a sharp ‘Pendragon’ slices into the quiet. So Merlin rolls onto his side and tucks the phone tighter against his ear as his voice comes out soft and vulnerable. “Look, I don’t care what they think, or what they say. I just, I just want you to come round tonight, if you want to?”

There’s a brief moment of silence, just long enough to make Merlin doubt. 

“I get off at seven.”

“I’ll have Percy drive round and pick you up.”

“You really are Batman, aren’t you?” Arthur quips and Merlin buries the tickle of laughter against his shoulder, curling himself even tighter atop of his bed. “It’ll all be okay,” Arthur tells him with such conviction that Merlin simply hums in reply. 

Because he believes him. 

**

A cold chill runs through the house and Merlin clutches the blankets tighter around him. A wisp of wind slips under the windowpane, but Merlin stays in his spot on the ledge, watching the headlights gleam and disappear on the streets below. It’s nearing eight o'clock and really Arthur should be here by now. The stress of today replays in Merlin's mind and he brings up his knees to rest his cheek upon them. He's so tired, exhausted. He’d sent Morgana off a few hours ago and laid in bed wishing for sleep, but it never came. Just at the moment he allows his eyes to slip close, the buzzer sounds and he lifts his head at the noise. Merlin stumbles across the living room, feet tripping on the tails of the blanket still hanging around his shoulders. He can see Arthur's grainy reflection in the monitor and his heart gives a little kick as he buzzes him in. Merlin shuffles back to the couch, door open and blanket now thrown over the back of the settee. Barely thirty seconds later Arthur pokes his head around the doorway, face flushed and hair plastered to his forehead.

Merlin looks at him puzzled. "Did you run up here?"

"Lift was being slow."

"You're odd."

"Mmm," Arthur hums and he's still standing in the doorway, as though he can’t quite bring himself to cross the threshold. 

Merlin studies him quietly, legs folded underneath him as Arthur leans against the doorjamb. "I know what happened today makes things awkward, and I should have known this would all come out eventually.”

“You think I'm nervous about that?” Arthur asks, “I don't care what the papers have to say.”

“But all that stuff resurfacing, won't it trigger anything? What about your dad?"

"Screw him. “ Arthur replies curtly, one hand lifting to push the sweat damp hair off his brow, leaving it stuck up in skewed tufts. “And I'm stronger then I was four years ago, I'll handle it. Especially if you’re there to help me?” 

"Of course," Merlin says without hesitation and Arthur's eyes soften to that liquid shade of aqua that appears depthless. "It would be better if we were saying all this without 20 feet of space between us, though."

Arthur shuffles from foot to foot, one hand still hidden behind the wall of the hallway. A blush of pink spreads across Arthur’s face, highlighting the concaves of his cheekbones. "I got you something," he eventually mumbles and Merlin raises an eyebrow in return.

“A Christmas gift,” Arthur continues and there’s a nervousness in his tone that makes Merlin shift to a stand. He takes a few tentative steps forward, watches the briefest flash of hesitance flicker across Arthur’s face before he eventually draws his arm back from behind its hiding place and Merlin comes to a stop abruptly. 

It’s undisguisable, the shape. A gasp catches in Merlin’s chest and it’s as if, for a moment, he can’t quite breathe. Arthur’s watching him unsurely, fingers drumming on the top of the case. Merlin’s yet to utter a word so Arthur finally strolls into the room and closes the distance between them. His fingers run gently down the bared flesh of Merlin’s arm, from elbow to fingertip. He catches Merlin’s hand in his and brings it to rest atop of the hard plastic covering between them. 

“I wanted to remind you why you make music,” Arthur speaks softly, bringing his and Merlin’s hands down to unclasp the first bracket of the guitar case. “Your parents knew you had a gift.” He bends his knees to reach down lower, flipping the second clasp just above the handle. Merlin numbly allows Arthur to guide him, still stunned at this new instrument in his home. Arthur turns and swings the case to lie upright on the piano beside them. “Maybe this will make you realise it yourself.”

Merlin’s brow knits over in confused silence as Arthur unclips the last buckle and lifts the lid. The sight of what’s inside makes Merlin’s knees waver beneath him and it’s only Arthur’s grip on his elbow that keeps him from tumbling to his feet. 

“Arthur, I can’t—this must have cost you a fortune.” 

Arthur simply shrugs, and Merlin thinks he can hear a mumble of Christmas tips or bonuses, he’s not quite sure. His fingers are still laced with Arthur’s loosely, and Merlin runs the tip of his hand up under the cuff of Arthur’s jacket. They hold each other's gaze as Merlin’s fingers stroke over the soft pale skin of Arthur’s wrist, thumb coming to brush over the rise of his scars. 

“I didn’t buy anything for anyone, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just credit me on the sleeve notes of your next album and we’ll call it even.” Arthur winks and Merlin shakes his head with a rueful grin until his eyes cast towards the guitar set in its case and the smile slips. 

He drops his hand from Arthur’s arm and moves to run a cautionary finger along the edges of the wood panelling. Sitting in the case is a beautifully restored Gibson LG1 guitar, the same as the one he and his father are holding in the photograph on the mantle, the one Merlin had caught Arthur looking at when he first welcomed him into his home all those months ago. He can feel Arthur studying him, no doubt waiting for him to freak out. Instead Merlin’s palm passes over the strings above the sound hole, carefully plucking them one by one. Each noise it makes has something inside Merlin loosening. Without hesitating, he reaches in and wraps shaking fingers around the neck of the guitar. He adjusts his feet slightly, broadens his shoulders and cradles the rump of the guitar against his hip, fingers instinctively sliding to settle over the strings. For the first time in almost a year, an instrument doesn’t feel wrong in his hands. The sensation alone causes tears to well up behind his eyes as he runs the flat of his palm along the front. 

“It feels just like my old one,” Merlin says almost breathlessly, eyes lifting to hold Arthur’s. There’s an almost shy smile taking over Arthur’s lips. So careful and barely even there, but the tug of his mouth is impossible to deny and Merlin wonders at how this man has come into his life and not just saved him once, but continues to do so over and over again. Quietly, Merlin turns to place the guitar back in its case, is so gentle with it, like it’s a priceless artefact. And it is, to him. 

Arthur’s leaning against the edge of the piano, staring up at Merlin from underneath the longest lashes. Merlin doesn’t hesitate or question himself as he leans in and covers Arthur’s lips with his own. The kiss is not soft, it’s passionate and raw and Merlin’s running his fingers along the nape of Arthur’s neck, drawing him closer and licking into his mouth. Arthur’s hands move to spread across Merlin’s spine, slipping underneath the light cotton t-shirt and stretching his palm wide over the solid heat of Merlin’s back. A hitched moan lingers in the air as Merlin sucks Arthur’s bottom lip between his, teeth biting down fleetingly before lapping the stinging flesh with his tongue. Arthur pulls back panting, breath hot against Merlin’s cheek. Their jeans sit awkwardly, constraints too tight as they press their hips together. Merlin’s planting soft kisses against the line of Arthur’s jaw, playfully nipping at the coarse stubble that prickles against his upper lip. He reaches the lobe of Arthur’s ear and suckles it into his mouth greedily. 

“Come to bed with me,” Merlin whispers low. Repeating the words Arthur said to him just last night, but there’s no hiding the difference in their tone, the meaning behind those few short words and Arthur just leans in and kisses him again.

**

They stumble down the hallway, mouths insistent, only breaking apart when the need for air or the need to nibble at the soft skin behind Arthur’s ear becomes a necessity. It’s the fifth time they’ve stopped to press against the landing wall since they started their journey from living room to bedroom a few minutes ago. Merlin’s pinned between the wall at his back and the solid heat of Arthur’s chest and he’s not complaining, not complaining at all. There are fingers gripping at his hips, holding him steady as Arthur latches himself to Merlin’s neck and doesn’t stop until he pulls that sound from Merlin’s lips again. 

Merlin slides an ankle around Arthur’s calf and spins him until they’re tripping over each other to stand upright. 

“You're not going to take me into the pantry again, are you?”

“Not this time.” Arthur bites at the bow of Merlin’s mouth and they finally, _finally_ burst through the bedroom. 

The room is a cold pleasure on their hot skin and Merlin guides Arthur backwards until his knees hit the edge of the bed and he falls onto it. Arthur sits up quickly and widens his legs, fingers already finding their home in the creases of Merlin’s hips and pulling him to stand between his thighs. Arthur leans forward to nudge at the bottom of Merlin’s t-shirt with his nose, moving it out of the way so he can nestle in the fine black hair that tapers under Merlin’s navel. His hands travel upwards, rake along Merlin’s sides, lifting the shirt on his back higher until Merlin gets the message and pulls it the rest of the way off. Merlin’s hands rest on Arthur’s shoulders and he’s not even sure he’s forming coherent words as Arthur’s tongue swirls along the line of his pelvis and flicks under the seam of his jeans. 

Then Arthur looks up at him, hair mussed across his brow, mouth shiny and wet and fuck he’s the picture perfect image of the best kind of wet dream. A sound that’s almost like a plea tumbles from his lips and Arthur takes it for the sign that it is and slowly unbuttons Merlin’s jeans. He slides the zip down over the bulge tenting the front of Merlin’s trousers and licks a wet path along the edge of his underwear. A hiss slips between Merlin’s teeth whilst his hands move up to run through Arthur’s hair. 

Merlin’s jeans come to pool at his ankles, soon followed by his boxer briefs and then Arthur’s flashing him a quick toothy grin before he burrows his face close against Merlin’s groin. The fingers in Arthur’s hair tighten and Merlin’s back arches like a bow as Arthur runs his tongue along the head of Merlin’s cock. 

“Oh God, yes,” Merlin croaks. Throat dry and lips chapped, but Arthur, Arthur’s mouth is so damn warm and wet as he eventually licks down and wraps his mouth around Merlin’s cock. Arthur’s lips are stretched wide, as he continues to bob his head faster along Merlin’s shaft. Nosing closer and closer with each slide to the mess of curls at the base. One hand cups Merlin’s balls, massages them in his palm as the other claws against Merlin’s arse cheek, dragging him closer. Merlin continues to mewl above, broken sounds that start low in the pit of his stomach and reverberate through his chest. Arthur looks like a fucking wreck. Hair sweat soaked and clinging to his forehead, face flushed and mouth blood red smeared with spit and pre-come. His tongue is doing amazing things, lapping along the vein on the underside of his cock until Merlin’s keening. Arthur’s making noises that sound like he’s gagging, but he doesn’t falter in his pace as he swallows around Merlin’s cock and mouths right to the base. 

“Fuck, stop Arthur. Shit, I'm gonna come and you're not even undressed.” Arthur pulls off him with a filthy pop and grins, before leaning back down and biting along the jut of Merlin’s hipbone. 

“No, no I want to see you,” Merlin whines, fingers bunching up the cotton of Arthur’s shirt until it’s under his armpits. “Let me,” he says softly, and Arthur obliges by lifting his arms and Merlin pulls it off the rest of the way. 

Merlin bends for a sloppy kiss, can faintly taste the musk of his own scent on Arthur’s lips and groans. He straddles Arthur’s lap for a moment, denim rough against his skin before crawling off and scooting to the head of the bed. Arthur stands and moves to the side, shirtless and heaving but looking so unsure. Merlin eyes him curiously and is almost about to voice his concerns when Arthur closes his eyes on a weighted sigh and pulls down his jeans and underwear. 

His actions are swift as he steps out of his trousers and kicks them to the side. Whilst Merlin’s eyes initially fall on Arthur’s cock, which is fucking glorious where it’s curled against his stomach, they soon drift. Arthur’s legs are thick and strong, toned muscle flexing under pale skin. There’s a dusting of fine golden hair along his thighs but there are other marks too. The scars are less noticeable than those on his wrists, paler in colour, but longer strokes. Merlin can’t count them all, but there’s many and when Merlin lifts his head to meet Arthur’s eyes, he can see the bravado behind them. 

“Gorgeous,” Merlin says in whispered awe. “Come here.” And Arthur does. His smile is more certain, touch more confident as they lay side by side, facing each other. Their mouths meet again, lazy tongues sliding against the other, unhurried. Merlin’s hand slides under Arthur’s arm to grasp the meat of his biceps, and the moment their hips come together, flesh on flesh, sends a spike of hot want down Merlin’s spine. The air hangs muggy between them, as Arthur’s fingers reach down and begin to strip Merlin’s cock. Hand dry, but he’s still wet from the warmth of Arthur’s mouth and as Arthur runs a blunt nail over the head of his cock Merlin’s unable to quiet the groan that shakes through his body. 

“I want you to fuck me.” 

Arthur’s fingers slow their pace, “Are you sure?”

“It's been a while but…I want you. Just go slow yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur kisses along Merlin’s jaw, light nips that stop when Arthur suddenly shifts up on his elbow. “Shit, I don't have anything,” he curses, “I didn't exactly plan for this.”

“Mm, I'm sure,” Merlin purrs, before leaning up and over Arthur and pulling out a handful of foil sachets from the beside cabinet. He tosses them on the bed and flops back down, chest pressed against Arthur’s as he lies half on top of him. Arthur’s looking down at him, slightly dumbstruck. 

“You did not go out and buy these?”

“No.”

“Oh God, tell me you didn't send Percy to get them for you.”

“What?” Merlin laughs. “God no, no. It's amazing what you can find in Morgana's handbag.”

“Why am I not even surprised.”

“She's prepared for every occasion.”

Arthur hums in response but Merlin's sure he's not listening to him at all as he feels the cool spill of lube along the backs of his thighs and Arthur's warm palm spread over the swell of his arse. His large hand continues to pass up and down in broad swipes, massaging the soft skin of Merlin’s perineum. On the third upstroke Arthur slips two wet fingers along the crease, catching on the rim of Merlin's hole and making him howl against Arthur's neck.

Arthur hushes and mumbles soothing endearments as he presses the barest tip of a finger in. Merlin gasps at the breach, body arching as he pushes back on Arthur's finger sliding him in to the second knuckle.

“More.” Merlin breathes and Arthur answers with another finger. And Christ he feels like it’s so tight down there, like he's swallowing Arthur whole. But then the fingers inside him twist and scissor and fuck, fuck he’s being split wide open. Merlin swings a leg over Arthur’s hip and ruts against his thigh. When Arthur brushes against that spot inside of him, the one he tries to find by himself late at night, the moan that bites off his tongue is unrestricted and he leans up to pant into Arthur's mouth.

“Now, I'm ready.”

Arthur pulls his fingers free and Merlin gasps at the loss.

“Turn around,” Arthur murmurs against his cheek and Merlin moves to lie on his side. He can hear the rip of a wrapper behind him, the slick slide of skin on skin. Then Arthur's hand is on Merlin's thigh sliding his top leg up until his knee rests against his chest. Arthur's nuzzling against the top of his spine, licking kisses across to the juncture of his neck. 

“I'll try to take it slow.”

“Arthur, come on,” Merlin sounds desperate now, but then Arthur's breaching him, slowly. Stretch by aching stretch. Merlin whimpers into the pillow, twisting his body to curve closer against Arthur's chest. Arthur grunts against the side of his face, hips pushing up and then, _fuck_. He's sheathed in Merlin fully, one hand holding under Merlin's knee keeping him open. The other slips under his body, nails dragging down his chest and over a peaked nipple. 

“God,” Merlin cries, as Arthur settles in and just stays still for a moment. 

“You're so beautiful, so fucking beautiful,” Arthur’s pressing the words into Merlin’s shoulder, and if it’s possible he slides even closer. Merlin’s slowly getting used to the sensation of being filled again, and damnit, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this stretched. But all too soon it’s not enough and he reaches back to grip Arthur’s thigh, fingers stroking over the bumps of scars as he moans. 

“Move, move.” 

And Arthur does. Slow at first, then with pounding ferocity, knee digging into the mattress as he shifts his angle and begins sliding in deep, sure thrusts. Merlin’s hand is still wrapped around Arthur’s leg, the other clenching the sheets tight under his fingers, broken sounds trapped in his throat. His body is on fire and he can feel the beads of sweat trickle from Arthur’s fringe down his neck. 

He wants to say more, something else other than, "Yes, yes, that, _there_. Harder, yes."  
But he can’t. Arthur’s hips rock up and Merlin meets him with every stroke, bearing down harder each time. Their breathing hangs heavy in the room as Arthur continues to fuck into him, hand moving lower to stroke Merlin’s cock. Arthur strips him ruthlessly, wet mouth against his ear, whispering dirty things, beautiful things. 

And then it’s all white noise. Arthur stills inside of him, moan filthy in his ear as he comes. Merlin follows, spilling over with a hitched gasp and Arthur’s name on his lips. 

**

The sheets pool at his waist as Arthur turns and rolls onto his back. He can feel the beam of sunlight hit his closed lids through the split in the curtains and he grumbles in protest as he shuffles back on his front. Arthur stretches an arm out to sling over Merlin’s chest, but the space beside him is empty. He frowns in his still-sleep-like state, cracking open one eye curiously to find the blankets a crumpled mess. It takes just a few blinks for him to sit up on the crook of his elbow and run a hand over his tired face. The side where Merlin slept is still warm and Arthur scoots across to get up and plant his feet on the carpet. Arthur takes a moment to look around the room, doubt sinking in, but then he hears a distant noise carry through the air and he rises to a stand. 

Slipping on his boxers, Arthur takes slow measured steps out of the bedroom, hand coming to scratch low at his belly. The sound grows louder, as Arthur reaches the living room and turns to stand in the doorway. Merlin’s sat at the piano, legs bare with only Arthur’s thin cotton shirt to cover him. His feet flex over the pedals, toes arching against the brass. Merlin’s back is hunched, fingers dancing across the keys whilst he hums a soft lullaby under his breath. He stops every now and then, thumbs through a leaf of papers atop of the piano and furiously scribbles or crosses out lines, lyrics and key changes with the lead of a pencil. It’s a mad rush of limbs, slightly chaotic and maddening in its process. But there’s also a raw honesty behind it which has Arthur enthralled as he leans against the door jamb. 

“You’re playing,” Arthur says softly, not wanting to ruin the moment for fear of breaking it. Merlin startles at his voice but when he looks up and catches Arthur watching from across the room, a smile stretches across his lips and his eyes widen in pure joy like Arthur’s never seen before. 

“What can I say, I was feeling inspired.” 

Merlin gestures for him to come over and shifts across the bench to make room. Arthur takes a seat and presses himself against Merlin, from shoulder to thigh. It should be cold, with all this naked skin between them, but Merlin’s body is warm and Arthur leans into the heat. 

“Nice shirt.” He fingers the hem of Merlin’s sleeve and tries to count Merlin’s eyelashes as they settle against the tops of his cheeks. When he flutters them open, it’s almost startling and Arthur has to catch his breath. All he wants to do is keep kissing Merlin. It’s easy then, to slide the hand on Merlin’s arm up to his neck, for Arthur to press his thumb in the hollow behind Merlin’s ear and close the last few inches between them. Merlin sighs against his mouth as Arthur sucks on the bow of Merlin’s top lip, before repeating the action on the lower one. Merlin drops a hand to trace over the top of Arthur’s thigh, following the criss-cross patterns whilst Arthur pulls back to plant kisses to the tip of Merlin’s chin, the underside of his jaw. 

“I spoke to Morgana earlier, played her something down the phone,” his breath hitches on the last word as Arthur’s teeth nip against his Adams apple. “She said she’d clear my schedule for today if, and I quote, ‘that blonde hottie spends the rest of the day shagging your brains out if it produces this kind of work.’” He smiles, making air quotes with his fingers and Arthur laughs against his neck. 

“So I have a duty to the nation, huh?”

“Hmm, not quite the nation, but I’m sure Morgana could get you a knighthood somehow if you spurred an album out of me in the next few weeks.”

“Few weeks?” Arthur sucks air between his teeth and shakes his head. “That’s not long, I better get to work.”

“You better,” Merlin smiles and wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck and drags him back down. 

 

**

 

It’s not happily ever after – these things rarely are. 

They yell, they fight, they push each other in all the worst ways possible, and all the best ways, too. They help each other when those dark thoughts re-emerge. When it’s the first anniversary of Hunith and Ballinor’s death and Arthur comes over to find the photo frames turned back around. Or when Arthur hears whispers that Uther has re-married, bore another child and named him Arthur – like he was simply replaced. Those times aren’t easy. 

But slowly it shifts so there are more good days than bad. And when Merlin’s returning album goes double platinum the following summer, there’s a small block of letters printed finely on the last page of the sleeve-notes. 

_For Arthur Pendragon – who saves me every day._

 

-  
The end.

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